Q :
YELLOW
TYPHOON
HAROLD MAC GRAFH
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
. OF CALIF. UBRARTf, WS
BOOKS BY
HAROLD MAcGRATH
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
THE PRIVATE WIRE TO WASHINGTON
THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
[ESTABLISHED 1817]
" V[o. Tin- same irirl in every port, in the fire, in
i- ' *lr IMI ii in 1111 vt
tlic moon mist.
The
Yellow Typhoon
BY
HAROLD MAcGRATH
AUTHOR OF
"THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE" "THE PRIVATE
WIRK TO WASHINGTON" ETC.
Illustrated by
WILL GREFE
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Copyright, 1919, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States 01 America
Published October. 1919
I-T
ILLUSTRATIONS
" No. THE SAME GIRL IN EVERT PORT, IN THE
FlRE, IN THE MoON-MlSTs" Frontispiece
HILDA WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY, STRUCK
BY THAT HYPNOSIS WITH WHICH SUDDEN TRAGEDY
ALWAYS BENUMBS Us Facing p. 292
2131520
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
CHAPTER I
A NAVAL officer, trig in his white twill,
strode along the Escolta, Manila's
leading thoroughfare. There was some-
thing in his stride that suggested anger;
and the settled grimness of his lips, visible
between his mustache and short beard, and
the hard brightness of his blue eyes em-
phasized this suggestion. He was angry,
but it was a cold anger, a kind of clear-
minded fury which often makes calculation
terrible. He had been carrying this anger
in his heart for six bitter years. It was
something like glacial ice; it moved always,
but never seemed to lose either hardness or
configuration. To-day it had the effect of
the north wind that almost forgotten
north wind of his native land in that it
winnowed all the chaff from his mind and
left one clear thought. He would settle the
i
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
matter once and for all time. The face
and form of an angel, and the heart of a
Messalina!
He had known all along that some day
she would turn up in Manila. It was im-
possible for them to resist the temptation
to view their handiwork. Tigers, they al-
ways return to the kill. But he had her
now, had her in the hollow of his hand.
All the fear of her was gone. This after-
noon he would teach her what the word
meant. Civilians were lucky. These sor-
did things could pop up into their lives,
even get into the papers, and shortly be
forgotten. But in the navy it was the
knell of advancement. It never mattered
if the wrong was wholly on the other side;
the result was the same. But he had her,
thank God! The world would never know
what had turned Bob Hallowell into a
misanthrope. The tentacles of the octopus
had been lopped off, as by a miracle. He
was a free man.
Never would he forget the shame and
misery, the horror of that night in the
Grand Hotel in Yokohama. The brazen-
ness of that confession on the first night
of his honeymoon! He was free, yes, but
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
he would never be able to blot out that
infernal night. Well, he had her. She
should leave Manila on the first ship that
left port; it did not matter whether it went
north or east. If she proved obdurate, he
would have her arrested. He would fight
her tooth and nail. The world had changed
since that night. The old order had gone
to smash since August, 1914. Traditions
had been badly mauled by necessities. Such
a scandal, in which he had been merely the
dupe, would scarcely leave a ripple in pass-
ing. Who would care, these tremendous
times?
He stopped abruptly. His thoughts had
almost carried him past the hotel, one of
those second-rate establishments which you
find in all Oriental cities that are sea-
ports, hotels full of tragic and sordid his-
tories. He entered, ran up the first flight of
stairs, scrutinized the numbers on two doors,
and paused before the third. He raised his
hand and struck the panel. A touch of
vertigo seized him. Supposing his love for
the Jezebel was still a living thing and
needed only the sight of the woman to
revive it?
"Come in!"
3
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
He opened the door and closed it behind
him, standing with his back to it. He did
not take off his hat. A cold little shudder
ran over him. She was more beautiful than
ever.
She rose from a dilapidated corduroy
divan, pressed the coal of a cigarette into
the ash-tray, and faced him, her air one of
hesitance and timidity. What she saw was
a squat muscular body, a beautiful head
with a rugged, kindly face. She noted the
hair, shot with silver. That was always
a good sign. Still, there was something in
the elevation of his jaw and the set of his
powerful shoulders she did not like.
What he saw was a woman of medium
height, slender but perfectly molded, young,
beautiful, exquisite. Her hair was the
color of spun molasses, lustrous because the
color was genuine. Her eyes were velvety
purple. The skin was milk-white, with a
hint of peachblow under the eyes and
temples. The marvel of her lay in the
fact that she never had to make up. The
devil had given her all those effectives for
which most women strive in vain. Inno-
cence! She might have stepped out of one
of Bouguereau's masterpieces. At one cor-
4
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ner of her mouth was the most charming
mole imaginable. You might look at her
nose, her eyes, the curve of her chin, but
invariably your glance returned to the mole.
The devil's finishing-touch; it permitted
you to see the mouth indirectly, and you
lost the salient a certain grim, cruel
hardness.
He waited with an ironical twist to one
corner of his mouth. But in his heart there
was great rejoicing. Aside from the initial
chill nothing, not a thrill, not a tingle at
the roots of his hair. He could look upon
her beauty without a single extra heart-
beat. He was free, spiritually as well as
legally.
"Well?" he said.
"I came to Manila, to you, because I am
tired and repentant and want a home. I
am growing old."
He laughed and rested his shoulders
against the door. There was a repressed
volcanic flash in her eyes. That laugh did
not presage well.
" Is it so hard to forgive?" Vocal honey.
"What is it you really want?" he asked,
perfectly willing to see the comedy to its
end.
5
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"A home . . . with you. I know, Rob-
ert, that I was a wretch in those days. But
the world over here . . . men . . . the
temptation . . . the primordial instinct of
woman to fight man with any weapon she
can lay a hand to! ... Won't you take
me back and forgive?"
"Take care, Berta! Don't waste those
tears! In your eyes they are pearls with-
out price. Don't waste them on me."
"Then you won't forgive?"
"Forgive? What manner of fool have
you written me down? Forgive! I gave
you an honest man's love . . . and you
picked my pockets! I would not give two
coppers to place on your dead eyes. Take
you home? Innocent child!"
"Ah! Then it is war?"
" War to the end, pretty cobra ! You don't
suppose I came here with any other idea?"
How she hated this man! Hated him
because she had never beaten him, never
seen him cringe nor heard him plead. She,
too, would remember that night in Yoko-
hama, six years gone. After the blow, si-
lence, not a word or a look. Stonily he had
packed up his belongings and gone to
the Yokohama Club, whence he had gone
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
aboard a cruiser in the morning. Since
that moment until this she had never laid
eyes on him. Every six months a check
came; but even that lacked his signature
a draft from Cook's. War! So be it. He
would learn when she began to turn the
screws.
"You will take me home and acknowledge
me," she whipped back at him.
"Acknowledge you . . . what?"
"As your wife!" stormily.
Again he laughed. "You are not my
wife, and never have been."
"And how will you prove it?"
"That will be easy. Curious old world,
isn't it? I thought, when I received your
note, that nothing would satisfy me but to
wring your neck. And all I want is a kiss
. . . because I'm sure it would poison you!
I know. You have in that head of jours
schemes for my humiliation, scandal, and
all that. A woman, known as The Yellow
Typhoon, claiming to be the wife of one
Robert Hallowell, rampaging the office,
storming the villa gate, getting interviewed.
No, Berta, it isn't going to happen at all.
On the contrary, you will leave Manila on
the first ship out "
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"And if I refuse?"
" Bilibid prison. While we are very busy
militarily, our civil courts have plenty of
time to try a prime case of bigamy. War?
You will jolly well find out!"
"Bigamy!"
"Sure. Lieutenant Graham is dead, and
I had charge of his effects. I found some
interesting letters. These led me to the
Protestant Episcopal cathedral, where your
name and his were neatly inscribed on the
register ... six months before you laid your
trap for me. You found, after you had
married him, that he wasn't the Graham
who had inherited a fortune. Marriage!
It seems to be a mania with you. How
many of us poor devils have you rooked
with your infernal beauty? What's God's
idea, anyhow? Or is it the devil himself
who fits you out, covers your black heart
with alluring flesh? No matter. The first
ship out or Bilibid. I have warned you."
Then he did something that he afterward
regretted. But malice burned so hotly in
his veins that he could not resist the im-
pulse. He walked over to her and, before
she could comprehend his purpose, swept
her into his arms, held her tightly for a mo-
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ment, and kissed her, her eyes, her lips, her
throat. Then he flung her roughly back
upon the divan, stalked from the room, and
closed the door with an emphasis which pro-
claimed that it was to stand between them
eternally. Once he reached the street, he
spat and rubbed his lips energetically.
He had been a fool to do that. He had
slipped down to her level. But, hang it!
it was the only way he could make her feel
anything, the viper!
A fool indeed; for later that act was going
to cost him dearly.
He left behind a tableau. Not until his
footsteps died away did the woman stir.
Then she sprang to her feet, a fury. She
swept her hand savagely across her mouth.
She, too, spat.
"Oh!" she cried, through her teeth, in a
kind of animal roar. She seized the divan
pillow, tore at it, and sent it hurtling across
the room. "Oh!"
"There, there! Enough of that, Berta!"
A man stepped from behind the screen.
He was notable for three things, his bulk,
his straw-colored hair, and the pleasant ex-
pression of his smooth, ruddy face. The
ensemble was particularly agreeable. But
2 9
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
in detail, somehow, the man lost out. There
wasn't enough skull at the back of his head,
his eyes were too shallow, there was a bad
droop to his nether lip. For all these de-
fects, everything about the man suggested
power power never wastefully applied.
The woman whirled upon him. "But
you!" her voice thick with passion. "You
saw what he did?"
"Yes."
"And you let him go?"
"I have told you. If there is one man
in Manila I do not care to meet, it's the
captain."
"I despise you all!" She flew about the
room, gesticulating.
"You will die of apoplexy some day, if
you ever have the misfortune to grow fat.
Enough of that nonsense. That goose is
dead; but there are others, and larger golden
eggs."
" But I hate him ! I want him broken, dis-
graced! Didn't you hear him order me out
of Manila?"
"Don't let that worry you. You'll stay
here until I'm ready to leave. I'll hide you
over in the Tondo."
"What! Among the natives?"
10
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The man crossed the room and caught
hold of her. "Be sensible. The captain
will do exactly as he threatens. It's Bilibid
if I don't hide you at once. You couldn't
walk five blocks up the Escolta without run-
ning into some one who knows you. You
left a trail across these diggings, my tiger-
kitten. They don't call you The Yellow
Typhoon for nothing. You've got to keep
under cover, since we can't get you into that
villa of his. These are war-times and I've
big work to do. You'll go to Tondo be-
cause it is my will. I've let you play
your game; now you'll help me play mine.
When this job is done we'll return to the
States and live like nabobs. I tell you,
Berta, there's a fortune for the picking.
Risks, yes; but not any more dangerous
than we've been accustomed to. These
American swine "
"Hush!"
"All right." The man switched into
Danish. "These American swine don't
shoot spies; they arrest them and let them
out on bail. Ye gods! But I say, I've
got a little surprise for you. Remember
those sables I smuggled in last spring?
Well, Wu Fang is making them into a coat
11
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that will be worth seven thousand in the
States."
" Manchurian !" disdainfully.
"Real Russian." He smoothed her hair;
but it was some time before she began to
purr. "No nonsense. We'll clear out of
here at once. I'll take you to the Tondo
and you can rig up in that Chinese costume
of yours. You can ride after sundown, and
I'll be out frequently. I'll fix you up like
the Sultan's favorite. You can wear a cap
outside of doors. Inside, it won't matter if
the natives see your hair."
"For how long?"
"Perhaps two weeks."
"Something of naval importance," she
mused.
"So big that the fatherland will pay a
million. One of the biggest things in the
world, here in Manila; and it's packed away
in the brain of that experimental husband
of yours. That's why I wanted you out
there. There is a blue-print at that villa.
If I can't land the big goose, I can land that.
If we can't apply the principle, we can learn
what it is."
"And if he loses it, it will break him?"
"Something like that."
12
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Then I'll go peacefully into the Tondo.
The thought of his being broken will keep
me alive. Make him pay for those kisses!"
The man held her off at arm's-length.
" You're a queer hawk. I don't suppose
there's a man on earth you really care for.
You're afraid of me; that's my hold."
11 Afraid of you? No. You are generally
sensible and necessary. And I happen to be
your wife. You're a port in the storm."
" There seems to be only one idea in your
head to break men, twist their hearts and
empty their pockets."
"I hate them. I have always hated
them. As a child I fought the boys when
they tried to kiss me. I was born that way.
Analyze it? I've never tried to. Perhaps
I am Nemesis for all the wrongs mankind
has done womankind. I hate them. They
never kiss me even you that I don't want
to strike and cut."
"And you've been successful for one rea-
son only."
"And what is that?"
"Naval officers, English and American,
proud and inherently afraid of scandal. You
may thank God you never tried your game
on a man of my kidney. Your pretty neck
13
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
would have twisted long ago. Mark me,
Berta, you are mine. Never try to play
any of those tricks on me. If you do I'll
kill you with bare hands. To you I am a
reliable business partner; to me you're the
one woman. Remember that. You hold
me because you are always a bit of mystery.
What's behind that day in San Francisco
when you decided to cast your lot with
mine? More than seven years gone, and
I've never found out. Some man, and be-
cause he did not give you a square deal all
these wrecks."
"Do you want the truth? You are the
first man who ever laid his hand on me.
I ran away from a humdrum world. I
wanted adventure, swift, red-blooded. I'm
a viking's daughter."
"I can believe that. You don't care for
money or jewels. It's the game, the sport.
Typhoons! that's you. You come and go
across men's lives exactly like a typhoon.
Wherever you pass wreckage. But our
captain seems to have escaped."
"I have your promise in regard to him."
The man laughed. "That's one of your
charms you stick it out. What are you
German, Dane, Finn? To this day I don't
14
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
know. But always keep in your pretty
head that you are mine. Marry them, kiss
them, and say good-by ; but always recollect
that I'm under the latticed window. After
all, it's just as well that you didn't go out to
San Miguel. The captain has a partner.
He'd have been too much for you."
"In what way?"
"Your way. Handsomest man in the
Asiatic fleet, and rich. He's to be trans-
ferred shortly to the Atlantic. And if I've
got the right of it, you and I are going to be
very much interested in his journey."
"Rich and handsome," she said, rumi-
natingly.
The man smiled ironically. "An officer
who has never had an affair; ice, where
women are concerned. I dig up their his-
tories; part of my game. You would have
about as much chance with him as I would
in a sampan in the middle of one of your
happy-go-lucky typhoons. A handsome,
vigorous young man, who carries a Rajpu-
tana parrakeet with him when he travels,
a talking parrakeet. Everybody in Manila
has heard about that bird."
"A handsome young man with money
and a talking parrakeet!" The woman be-
15
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
gan to laugh. "I never heard anything
like that before. I am interested. What's
he look like?"
The man took out a wallet from which he
drew a newspaper clipping. ' i That's a good
likeness."
"He is handsome! . . . Good Heavens!"
"Well?"
"But this isn't his photograph. It's a
crook's 'Black' Ellison, wanted for dia-
mond robbery and assault in San Francisco."
"The two look enough alike to be useful
. . . maybe. Not a physical likeness; it's
merely photographic. I never overlook
anything. If he takes the journey I have
in mind, it may be of use. Photographi-
cally, they look enough alike to be twins."
The woman returned the clipping, her
eyes somber. She walked slowly over to a
window and stared down into the street
without seeing anything of the busy life
below.
CHAPTER II
OUT San Miguel way there are many
two-storied brick villas with Spanish-
red tiles. Sometimes there are three or four
almost neighborly, then one aloof and alone.
Tn Manila most white folk live up-stairs,
the servants down. It permits white folk
to talk over their affairs without listeners
and the servants to run away to cock-fights
as often as they dare.
One of these isolated villas was walled
in, except on the river side, by a wall of
rubble coated with whitewash. Rising
above the chevaux de frise of broken bottles
was a fringe of feathery bamboo. There
was an alley of these trees from the gate to
the door. There was also a garden ;_but the
precise formality with which it had been
laid out was a mute testimony of the ab-
sence of womankind.
Two Americans lived there bachelors.
One of them lived there continuously; the
17
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
other, whenever his ship was in port. They
were officers in the United States navy.
An odd pair, agreed official and social
Manila; and after futile efforts to make
friends with them, dismissed them. Odd,
because bachelor officers who have incomes
outside their pay are generally gay sailor-
men. Off duty, these two formed an asso-
ciation of hermits. They never went any-
where except officially, and avoided women
as other men avoided the plague. One of
them was woman-shy; the other hated
them, it was said.
Captain Hallowell of the staff would in
all probability never go to sea again, ac-
tively. An experiment had severely in-
jured one of his eyes, though the defect was
not noticeable..
Lieutenant-Commander Mathison was an
officer of the line a fighting sailor. They
were as unlike physically as it is possible
for two men to be.
Hallowell was the dreamer, the thinker.
He was short, thick, rugged, and a trifle
gray. His head and short beard were shot
with silver, though his mustache was still
black. There was something about him
that reminded you of the gorilla. You
18
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
were likely to carry this idea in your head
until you knew him; then you understood
that he was in the same category as the
St. Bernard the gentlest and friendliest
dog in the world until thoroughly aroused.
They called him a woman-hater with some
justice, though no one in official Manila
ever learned the true facts, not even Mathi-
son, who surmised that Hallowell had run
afoul some worthless woman and had got
past the reefs by a hair.
Mathison was the man of action. He
was tall, slender, and handsome, with a
smooth olive skin. This deep color gave
conspicuity to his gray eyes, the whites of
which were dazzling. Every line and turn
of his face gave you the impression that by
nature he was amiable in the extreme.
Given cause, he could be as savage and re-
lentless as the gorilla his friend resembled.
Woman-shy, they called him, because
they could find no other suitable name for
the puzzle. He was always courteous when,
by those accidents of chance called official
receptions, he found himself among women.
But there was always a cold reserve the
brightest eyes could not batter down. Rest
assured, there were many feminine cam-
19
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
paigns. He was the combination of two
things women prize highly, greedily or sen-
timentally money and good looks.
What had the aspect of shyness was
merely an idea, held to with surpassing reso-
lution. I shall tell you about this idea
later on. There are, here and there across
this world, men like Mathison, who are
neither mollycoddles nor sanctimonious
nincompoops. They are not gregarious
the type from which explorers come, men
who know how to live alone, to whom the
most necessary and alluring thing in life is
to overcome obstacles.
This resolution had toughened Mathison,
morally and physically. Packed away in
that lithe body of his was tremendous vital-
ity. He was perfectly willing to be called
woman-shy. Such a reputation was a con-
siderable barricade. He was content to
rest behind it. There had been battles,
bitter conflicts. There are certain fires
which hypnotize; one must reach out and
touch them. I might say that this idea of
his was always in a state of siege.
After this exposition, it sounds odd to
remark that Mathison was as full of ro-
mance as a Chinese water-chestnut is of
20
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
starch,' that his day-dreams were peopled
with lovely women. He never saw a beau-
tiful woman that he did not immediately
clothe her in his colorful imagination. He
rescued her from Chinese pirates, he was
shipwrecked and cast away on a desert
island with her, he tore her from the hands
of brigands or the latticed window of some
rajah's haremlik; and he always married
her in the end. Everything in him inclined
toward the companionship of women, and
he had built a Chinese wall around this
inclination.
Among men, however, he was companion-
able, witty, humorous, and full of sound
common sense. But no one ever called him
Jack, not even Hallowell, the best friend
he had. He was always John or Mathison
to his equals and superiors, and "sir" to
his subordinates. Hallowell, however, had
compromised on "Mat." And yet Mathi-
son bubbled with personal magnetism.
You never get deeply into a naval officer's
character by rubbing elbows with him in
wardrooms or officers' clubs. If you want
to know the real man, go down into the
boiler-rooms, the gun-rooms, anywhere but
the quarter-deck. The rough-necks will tell
21
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
you. They sometimes weigh you with a
glance. Two things they require of you
absolute justice and firmness. That was
Mathison to his men ; and he always backed
these attributes with a smiling eye. There
was something in the snap of his voice that
inclined men to obey him at once, without
question; not that they were afraid of him,
but that they knew he was right. In the
navy in all navies there are underground
wireless stations. A man's reputation trav-
els from ship to ship, and when an officer is
transferred the men try him out just to see
if his crown is of tinsel or of gold.
A fighting-sailor with red blood, with a
born gambler's interest in chance, winning
or losing with a smile, as you shall sec; thirty
years of age, and no anchor to windward.
He never forgot anything. They said of
him that he could hide his collar-button
during a dream and go directly to it in the
morning. Hallowell, however, was very
absent-minded. Often he would go about
the living-room in search of his pipe, in the
end to find it dangling in his teeth. Or he
would wash his face with his spectacles on
and wonder what in thunderation ailed his
sound eye.
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Hallowell he, too, was full of romance
miracles in steel, visions which cast into
shape huge fighting-machines, tremendous
guns, flying torpedoes. He was, aside from
his official duties, a successful inventor. Few
of the grim floating forts of the navy were
without certain devices of his. He had just
completed plans which eventually were go-
ing to cause the German Admiralty a good
deal of anxiety.
There were still two or three points he had
not cleared up to his own satisfaction. The
plans were absolutely complete as they
stood; and he believed he saw a chance to
reduce the complexity of certain phases;
and he was hammering away at this prob-
lem after hours, often far into the night.
Mathison, Hallowell and Company (the
Company being the Rajputana parrakeet) ;
an odd pair of men, rather misunderstood,
with few intimates, sharing a deep, abiding
love, never spoken of, but tacitly understood.
They were jocularly known as "The Two
Orphans" and the villa as "The Orphan-
age," as both men were without immediate
family ties.
Lately Hallowell had formed the habit
of going to the Botanical Gardens for a
23
half-hour's ramble, between four and five.
He had discovered that this mild exercise
cleared his mind of all routine and left it
free to creative musings. He tramped
about the paths at a moderate gait, his
hands behind his back, the tip of his short,
gray-peppered beard projecting like a bow-
sprit over his collar. I doubt if during
these pleasant peregrinations he ever saw
anything but the white markings on blue-
prints. Half an hour to the minute, then he
would shake off the spell, set his shoulders,
and hurry away for the trolley to San Miguel.
Having delivered his ultimatum to the
woman known as The Yellow Typhoon and
having learned, on the following day, that
she had left the hotel in the Escolta, all
thought of her went out of his mind com-
pletely. It was an unhappy page turned
down for good. But to-day, one week later,
as he came out of his day-dreams, she
popped into his head.
A wave of shame ran over him. He
would never forgive himself for that vio-
lence. Not that he felt any pity toward
the woman. The act had lowered himself
eternally in his own eyes; the luster was
gone from his self-esteem. He had kissed
24
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
another man's wife, not his own. And
what was worse, she might interpret the
act as a sign that he still cared for her and
try to re-enter his life at some later day.
Fool! A mad impulse to hurt her, and he
had hurt only himself. Well, the damage
was done; berating his folly would not wipe
it off the slate.
Suddenly his sound eye lost its introspec-
tive look and became alert. Coming down
the path toward him was a woman. She
was dressed in pongee, a sola-topee on her
head. Round this sun-helmet ran the folds
of a gray veil which could be lowered or
raised at will. At this moment the wom-
an's face was clear. It was young and
vividly beautiful. Her hair was a ruddy
gold, like the tips of ripe wheat after rain.
The sun, directly behind her, cast a golden
nimbus on each side of her head. Her eyes
were purple-blue, like wooji-violets, and her
skin was the tint of pale amber. She walked
with a free stride of one who loved the air
and sunshine. She saw Hallowell only after
he had deliberately stepped in front of her,
blocking the way.
Her mouth opened slightly and a vague
bewilderment took the zest out of her face.
3 25
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Still in town, then?"
"Sir . . .!"
He interrupted with a laugh. " You're
magnificent; I'll always grant you that. You
should have gone on the stage. But I'm no
longer to be fooled. The pearl is gone from
the oyster, the juice from the orange; so why
tarry, pretty blackmailer? I warned you
to clear out, and I thought you'd have sense
enough to do so. To-morrow morning I'll
hunt for you; and if I find you I'll have you
locked up. God knows how you women do
it! Here you are straight out of perdition,
with more beauty than ever. And inno-
cence! That's the pitfall; your look of
innocence. That's what draws us poor,
trusting fools. Well, the night to clear out
in. If I find you to-morrow I'll stamp
on you as I would a cobra. The Yellow
Typhoon! Some poor devil named you
well. But you'll never break another white
man, not in these parts. I apologize for
those kisses. I forgot you weren't my wife.
I'm giving you until morning."
Insolently he swung on his heel and
marched down the path.
The woman remained exactly where he
had left her, in the center of the path. Have
M
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
you ever seen a clean, upstanding flower
suddenly beaten down by a squall of rain?
Her bodily attitude resembled that, at least
for a space. One hand went slowly to her
eyes, then fell limply to her side. But soon
she stiffened, and there were volcanic flashes
in her eyes. As Hallowell vanished behind
the clove-trees she turned. Near by she
saw a marine and he was eying her curiously.
Evidently he had witnessed the scene. She
approached him.
What followed, the marine himself re-
counted at mess that night.
"I was amblin' along at a safe distance.
My orders were t' keep ol' Pop Hallowell
under eye s' long as he was in th' Gar-
dens. Hennessy picks him up outside an'
follows him until he gits safe on th' trolley.
Well, he was goin' along, when down the
path comes a lady. She walked as if she
didn't know where she was goin', either.
An' out steps Pop in front of her, like he
was a gay bird with the ladies. Th' dame
gives him th' haughty. But he comes back.
Her mouth opens a little, but she don't make
no move. I couldn't hear nothin', but Pop
was layin' down some law or other, which
he winds up with a bang on his palm, an'
27
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
marches off, with the lady starin' after him
like I'd stare if I saw a flyin'-fish come int'
th' mess port an' ask for whitebait.
"I kind o' thought I'd move on, when she
pipes me an' comes over.
"'Who was that officer?' she asks me.
Bo, believe me, she had all the little Marys
an' Normas an' Paulines in th' movies laid
away with the long-cruise eggs. Gee! You'll
gimme th' ha-ha, but I on'y needed a look
t' tell that she was straight.
'" Well,' I says, 'that's Captain Hallowell,
miss,' I says.
'"Captain Hallowell,' she repeats after
me. 'Where does he live?'
" 'He has a villa out in San Miguel, on th'
Pasig,' I says. 'He an' Lieutenant-Com-
mander Mathison live there together.'
"'He's not married, then?'
"I laughs. 'No, lady. Both of 'em are
gun-shy.' She looks puzzled an' I adds,
'They don't have nothin' t' do with the
ladies, miss.'
'"Oh! Then he's th' inventor?'
" ' That's him, miss.' Then I freezes up
a bit, rememberin' orders. I'm t' report
anybody who asks questions about oP Pop.
But I tumbles that she ain't no officer's
28
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
wife or nothin', an' I asks what he'd said
to her.
"'He mistook me for some one else/ she
says. So help me, if there's two like that
in Manila, th' place is due t' go on th' blink
in a week. Then she lowers th' veil an'
goes off toward th' exit, me trailin'. Had
t' find out where she was puttin' up. An'
hang me if she doesn't go plump into that
joint in th' Escolta where Murphy an' me
was thrown out last month an' just missed
restin' up in th' brig. Which shows that
you can't dope a woman out by her looks."
The young woman she was possibly
twenty-six eventually reached her room.
Her maid welcomed her effusively.
" Sarah we must leave here at once.
Pack."
" Another hotel before we sail?" cried
the astonished maid.
"Yes. And until I give you further or-
ders never speak my name. Always call
me madame. Be on your guard about this.
I'm very fond of you, and I've let you have
your way often. It may be a matter of life
and death. We shall dine here in the room.
Have a carriage at the curb at six-thirty.
29
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Fortunately our heavy luggage went on.
When you pack the steamer-trunk, lay all
the darker and heavier things on top. And
the box of make-up where I can reach it
handily. I have decided to grow old quick-
ly. I understand, Sarah. You are becom-
ing bewildered. No less so am I."
"Madame's nerves . . ."
"They happen to be steel now. Don't
worry about me. Only, be sure always to
obey me ... if you love me!"
"If I love you! Oh, madame, a mother
could not love her daughter more than I
love you! You left America so gaily and
happily to see this Orient. The sea voyage
built you up. And then, that dreadful
night in Shanghai. You came and woke me
and clung to me all night, and you would
not speak. And then it began. We move
from one place to another, not like persons
touring like people who have done some-
thing wrong. And I know that you have
done nothing wrong. Ah, madame, what
is happening to us?"
"So strange a thing, Sarah, that your
poor brain would not accept the facts if
I told them. Be patient with me."
"Oh, madame, who would not be patient
30
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
with you? I am French; we know what the
word gratitude means. Command me; I
obey. But yes! Here is a cable for you,
madame. I will go order the dinner and
the carriage."
Her mistress took the cablegram ab-
sently. She was not at all excited over the
receipt of it, for the simple reason she knew
exactly what it would contain a single
word. Hurry. Once a week, often twice,
this same distracted word. Hurry. It was
always at Cook's or at the American Ex-
press. The poor man! He would soon be
pulling his hair. When she heard the door
close behind the maid, instinctively she
picked out a channel 'twixt the bed and
chairs and proceeded to navigate it back
and forth.
The Yellow Typhoon! They called her
that, strange men, in Yokohama, Tokio,
Hong -Kong, Shanghai; and always with
that air men use toward women of a certain
type. Everything in her called out wildly
for vengeance, reprisal; and she was bound
tragically, inconceivably, like a dreamer in
the mesh of some monstrous nightmare. . . .
To stamp on her as he would a cobra, if
he found her! Helpless; all she could do
31
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
to defend herself would be to move on,
hide. That was what galled her; she could
not retaliate. But one thing she could do
forestall, anticipate, nullify. And oh! she
would do that with all the strength and
cunning she possessed.
Horrible as it was, that meeting in the
Gardens was fortunate. She now possessed
hand hold. Hallowell, a naval inventor,
living in a villa out in San Miguel, on the
Pasig. Blue-prints. There was sense to
all those broken sentences which had come
through yonder door a few days gone.
Danish words her own blood-tongue! She
had not seen the man, so she could not
describe him. But his companion!
She stopped before the mirror and studied
her face carefully. What an incredible
thing it was! Mirrors, once so pleasant to
gaze into, had now become chambers of
horror. She no longer saw herself she saw
a grave open and the dead arise. After
eight years! And to stumble upon the truth
through the agency of strange men address-
ing her familiarly! The Yellow Typhoon!
Drawn by instinct, repelled by intellect and
breeding, she felt as if invisible wild horses
were rending her
32
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
In that room there, within reach of her
voice and hand ! Whither had she gone, this
ghost? Terror and cowardly fear had held
her back from making her own presence
known; and now it was too late. She had
fallen asleep somewhere, back there in China,
and hadn't yet waked up. That must be it !
The Yellow Typhoon! And she had stum-
bled across the wrecks innocently across
an open grave which had never been filled!
Berta, in the next room! Who, then, was
in the grave in Greenwood? The malicious
cruelty of it!
Very well. She would telephone this
Captain Hallowell. She would warn him.
She became conscious of the unopened
cablegram. She tore off the edge of the en-
velope. For a moment she thought there
must be some mistake. Jargon. Then she
awoke.
"Oh!" she cried. She ran over to her
steamer-trunk and things flew about for a
space. The result was a diary-book from
the rear pages of which she took a folded
square of tissue-paper. She sat down,
cross-legged, and laid this square carefully
upon a knee. Ten minutes later she had
the message decoded.
33
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison. Hallowell's blue-prints. Nippon
Mam. He may be followed. Sail with him. Keep
in touch with Washington wireless. This is your
chance.
She sprang up, found a match, and ap-
plied it to the cablegram, powdering the
ashes. Alive! She was alive again. What
she had stumbled upon disconnectedly was
now made clear. Her chance! She had a
great debt to pay, and here was the oppor-
tunity to pay it. Pay it she would, through
fire and water. She would show them that
there was one who could be grateful. Fame
and riches and honor, she owed for these.
She would pay the debt.
Singular thing! In these months of
wandering in this bewildering maze of dark
and yellow peoples no one had ever recog-
nized her. And yet it wasn't so singular,
if one thought it out. Her world was at
home, busy with war.
She would telephone Hallowell at once
and warn him that he was in danger. And
the thought of him brought back the
thought of Berta. The colossal irony! So
be it. If Berta stood in her way, she would
crush her, relentlessly, inexorably. And
what was Berta? Only a wandering ghost,
34
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
a lie. A phantom men called The Yellow
Typhoon.
Her telephone call, however, was not
answered. There was no one, apparently,
at the villa in San Miguel. She would have
to drive out and leave a note. Either the
captain or Mathison, his friend, would find
it when he returned. She found a Tagalog
boy with a tough Manchurian pony, and
she went clattering away into the night.
The dry monsoon carried the dust along
with them.
Just about this time a man in civilian
clothes, but with authority written dis-
tinctly on his tanned face, entered the hotel
in the Escolta. The proprietor began obse-
quiously to dry-wash his hands.
"The Senor Morgan!"
"Where's Berta Nordstrom, the woman
known as The Yellow Typhoon?"
"She?" A gesture. "She went away a
week ago, senor."
" She is here now. She was seen to enter
here a little after five. "
"That is impossible." ,
"I say she did. Bring her down. She
wore pongee and a white pith helmet."
"She? Oh, that was not the Nordstrom
35
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
woman. No one here has seen this woman's
face. She wears a veil always, and dines
in her room."
"Bring her down."
"But, senor, she left at six-thirty."
"What? Where did she go?"
"That I don't know."
"The devil! Any man with her?"
"No, senor. Shall I take you to her
room?"
"No. She fooled you."
"That is not possible, for the two women
were here at the same time. I can prove
that, senor."
"I have seen the Nordstrom woman.
The description of the woman in the pith
helmet agrees absolutely."
"I cannot help that, senor. They were
here at the same time, though they did not
meet."
"All right. If I find you haven't told
me the truth, we'll lock up the place. You
are not very good Americans around here.
Good night." Outside in the street Morgan
of the Intelligence who switched from uni-
form to mufti frequently pushed back his
hat, perplexed. "Two? Impossible! A
trick. I'll set a man to watch. I'll quiz
36
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that marine again. If he didn't describe
the Nordstrom woman, I'll eat my hat!"
Could he have peered into one of the
thousand huts of bamboo and nipa palm,
in the Tondo, he might have been convinced
of one thing that there was still a thrill left
in the dizzy old world for men even as blase
as himself. A woman, wearing the gay
little costume of a high-caste Chinese wom-
an, sat on a cushion, her legs curled under
her. She was smoking a cigarette. From
a brass bowl at one side of her rose faint
spirals of smoke. Into this bowl she flicked
the ash. There was a smile, inscrutable,
on her lips the smile particular to one god
and one woman, Buddha and Mona Lisa.
By and by she picked up a fresh cigarette;
but she did not light it. She broke it in
two. In fancy it was a man.
The little Tagalog serving-girl, squatting
on the floor and blowing chaff from rice,
could not keep her wondering gaze off this
exquisite creature whose hair shone like
the gold bangles on the ankles of the danc-
ing-girls. There would be a good deal of
chaff in that rice when the time came to
cook it.
CHAPTER III
IMMEDIATELY after "chow" that
1 night Mathison and Hallowell entered
the living-room, filling their pipes. They
were both smiling, each with the idea that he
was bucking up the other. For they were
at the parting of the ways, these two, and
they might never meet again. At dinner
they had talked of everything but that
which was uppermost in their thoughts. In
the center of the living-room was a long
trencher-table a slab of wonderful mahog-
any propped by enormous boles of Cal-
cutta bamboo. One end was stacked with
books and magazines. The blank space at
the other end was HallowelTs pet abiding-
place. Here, after the day's work was
done, he would wrestle with his mechanical
problems.
Hallowell fired his pipe and held out the
flaming match toward Mathison, who man-
aged to catch the last flicker.
38
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
They waited until Paolo, the Spanish
servant, went below with the dishes. Of
late they had become a little suspicious of
the Spaniard. He loitered in the dining-
room when there was no legitimate excuse.
"Well, you lucky son-of-a-gun," said
Hallowell, "in a few weeks you'll be ram-
paging up the Main, with proper sea-boots
on your feet and a drab terrier under them.
Lord! how I wish I were thirty instead of
forty-five! But I've walked my last bridge.
This is my chart-room. Of course, if I
wanted to pull a wire or two, I could get
to Washington. But I've certain ideas
about the navy, and I don't want them
actually touched. In Washington a chap
sees the seams of the service, wires, time-
serving, and all that. But out here it's
the fighting - machine. We can't all go
potting subs, but some of us can make the
potting easier."
Mathison put his hands on the other's
shoulders. "Bob, you're the most lovable
man God ever gave to another for a com-
rade. And I'm going to miss you like
the devil. And more, I'm going to worry
over you, you're such an infernally absent-
minded dub."
"That's a gift, that. We absent-minded
dubs are always too busy to waste time
wailing. Lord ! but this coming and going
of yours has been pleasant to me! I know,
sometimes I have been moody and grumpy;
but I believe you always understood."
"Yes. A woman somewhere who wasn't
worth it."
Hallowell nodded.
"And she's gone, vanished," went on
Mathison.
"How do you figure that out?" asked
Hallowell, curiously.
"For some days now you have been going
about with a tune on your lips airs from
old light operas we went to in the happy
days. I've never asked questions 5 I'm not
going to now."
"A nightmare, and I've just waked up,"
said Hallowell, staring at the coal in his
pipe. "It wasn't natural for me to gloom.
I'm cheerful by nature, the same as you.
I'd tell you the whole story if I thought it
worth while. Women are all right. It was
my misfortune to become interested in the
wrong one. I wonder if Cunningham would
come up and share the place with me?"
"That's odd! This very day I tapped
40
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
him on the subject and he's crazy to get
out here."
"That's fine! Two years, and they've
been the happiest I've ever known."
"God bless you, Bob! Remember, I
made no pull for this."
"You poor lubber! The whole lot of us
have been watching you eat your heart out.
You had to go. And they had to send you.
Saturday. It's a great adventure; an ad-
venture the moment you step on board the
Nippon Maru until you march up Fifth
Avenue in the Peace Parade ! Funny thing.
You'll get through. Feel it; one of those
old wives' hunches. Made all your plans?"
"Yes."
"How are you going to carry them?"
Mathison laughed. "Not even to you,
Bob. But these little blue-prints of yours
are going to Washington. Fire and water
and poison gas won't stop me. This is go-
ing to be rather an unusual stunt. The
moment I land in San Francisco I shall be
under the friendly shadow of the greatest
organization of its kind in the world the
Secret Service. When I step from the ship
I shall wear a little green ribbon; from train
to train I shall wear it. I sha'n't know
4 41
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
anything about it, but those boys will
have their eyes upon me. Simple; can't
fail. At any time, if I'm in trouble, all I've
got to do is to set up a yodel and the trouble
is eliminated. On the other hand, I'm go-
ing to stay snug in my cabin. I'm not go-
ing to stick my head out until I step from
one train to another. On board the Maru,
however, I've got to depend upon myself.
The thing has got about, Bob. I don't
mean my end of it. It's got about that
you've done a big thing. I've a strong idea
that I'm being watched."
"No doubt of it. You're the only inti-
mate friend I have. Those damned Ger-
mans! They're as thick as flies in this town.
And how the devil is a man to know?
Swedes, Danes, Norwegians, Finns Teu-
tonic, all of them. But so long as their
papers are correct we can't lay a hand on
them."
"When will you have the extra stuff
ready?"
"To-night. I'll have it all out on old
No. 9 print. And you'll carry that along
with you."
"Honestly, Bob, I'm worried about that
print being here in the house. I don't trust
42
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Paolo. He's Spanish; and while the Euro-
pean Spaniard has forgotten, the Philippine
Spaniard still covertly hates us."
" Nonsense! No. 9 is utterly worthless
without the key-print. But if anything
should happen to me before you go, don't
forget that little red book in the wall safe.
Morgan of the Intelligence gave me those
names. They'll be worth looking at. Sus-
pects, too clever to handle."
"To hell with the Ki!" came raucously
from the darkened dining-room.
The two men laughed.
"You'll be taking Malachi along with
you?" asked Hallo well.
"Would you like him?"
"Like him? Why, God bless you, I'd
be having you to talk to, with that bird
around. He's a wonder. The way he picks
up things is uncanny."
"He's yours."
"Honestly? WeU, by George! That's
mighty fine of you."
"He's served his turn. He amused me
when I hadn't any one to talk to. He's
yours as much as mine, anyhow. He talks
for you as much as he does for me. Besides,
the poor little begger hates the sea. If I
43
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
~j
took him aboard the destroyer he'd break
his neck trying to keep on his perch."
"That bucks me up a lot, Mat. I'm very
fond of that parrakeet. Going out?"
"Tailor. I'm buying a cits. Best for me
to travel incog, if I can. Last fitting. I'll
be back."
"Fire and water and poison gas; you'll
pull through."
"You bet I will! Think of the yarn-
spinning when I'm off duty! I can tell the
wondering gunners that I saw the begin-
ning of the idea, that I know the old son-
of-a-gun who invented it. Nine o'clock."
"I'll be here," replied HaUoweU, "wait-
ing for you. Though I may turn in any
time later than nine. So long."
Mathison went down the' path. Half-
way to the gate he turned and stared at the
lighted windows. He could see the shadow
of Hallowell's huge shoulders on the cur-
tain. The dear old stick-in-the-mud ! What
would he do without some one to watch
over him? He strode on, closing the gate
behind him with a musical clang.
His tailoring required more time than
he had made allowance for; the Chinaman
hadn't made the coat^sleeves quite short
44
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
enough. Thus, when he stepped off the
trolley-car which bisected the street less than
a quarter of a mile from the villa a five
minutes' walk, tonicky on glorious nights
like this it was nine-twenty by his wrist-
watch.
He swung along with a jaunty stride,
whistling the latest tune that had "come
out," "Oh, boy, where do we go from here?"
He felt like a butterfly that had just cut
through its cocoon and found the world
a pretty good place to live in. In two
months' time he would have his drab little
terrier under his sea-boots. But for the
thought of leaving Bob behind, he would
have been the happiest man on earth.
These cogitations came to an abrupt end.
He stopped. A picture had flashed into
range. A carriage, driven like mad, had
swooped under an arc-light; and the ve-
hicle was coming in his direction. A golden
fog of dust rose up under the lamp. As
there was another arc -light opposite to
where he stood, Mathison decided to wait.
The carriage came thundering on. The
driver was standing up. As it rattled past
on the two port wheels Mathison had a
glimpse of the passenger. A woman! And
45
she was holding on for dear life. He gathered
one vague impression that she was young.
"What the dickens is her hurry?" He
drew his hand across his chin. "No boat
or train at this hour. Drunken Tagalog,
probably. Too late for me to do anything."
He continued on. He began whistling
another tune. "Where's the girl for me?"
"She may pass me by and never know
She was the girl for me!"
When he reached the villa gate he looked
up inquiringly. The incandescent lamp
projecting from the keystone was out.
Usually this burned until dawn. Mathison
gave it a passing thought wires burned out,
probably unlocked the gate and marched
down the bamboo-lined path to the villa
door. Here again he paused. No lights.
"I see. Beggar's gone to bed, and that
rogue Paolo has sneaked off to a cock-fight.
Bob ought to give him the boot."
He climbed the stairs silently and went
to his room. He did not cross the center of
the house to accomplish this; he merely fol-
lowed the veranda corridor. He tossed his
cap on the bureau, yawned luxuriously, for
he was tired, and sat down on the edge of
46
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the bed to take off his shoes; but he imme-
diately ceased all movement. The parra-
keet was talking vulgar Hindustani and
equally vulgar English.
"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?
Chup!" Which is Hindustani for "Stop
your noise!"
Mathison stared, his expression one of
puzzlement. Malachi never made a racket
at night unless he was profoundly disturbed.
What ailed the bird? And where the devil
was Bob? He decided to investigate.
"Mat! . . . Bahadur Sahib! . . . Chota
Malachi! . . . Bounder, take that ace out of
your sleeve! ... To hell with the Ki! . . .
Mathison, Hallowell, and Company, and be
damned to you! . . . Malachi!" in a singular
kind of wail.
A word about this parrakeet. He was well
known in Manila, at least among the younger
officers in the navy and the army stationed
there. Certain parrots and parrakeets talk
fluently. The brain, about the size of your
finger-tip, is memory in the concrete. Men
of science are still pulling their beards over
the talking parrot, but their phrases haven't
fooled anybody; they are just as much in
the dark as you and I. The birds are child-
47
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
like in some respects. You teach the feath-
ered emeralds this or that; and then, some
day, in trying to show them off, they con-
found you (and regale your company) by
rattling the family skeleton. Like children,
they store away a good many things not
intended for their ears.
Malachi I believe they named him af-
ter Mulvaney's elephant had been taught
many phrases which pass in wardrooms but
are taboo in parlors. Only, Malachi did
not know it. Why men teach birds to
swear I don't know, unless it be that a
ribald oath uttered by innocence in the ab-
solute is a man's idea of humor. Malachi 's
masters had taught him to memorize the
names of a few cronies who occasionally
dropped in for poker or bridge: and there
was always a hilarious uproar when the bird
gravely and unexpectedly demanded that So-
and-so drop the ace he was hiding in his sleeve.
But he had the habit of all talking parrots,
big or little, of shutting up shop for hours
at a stretch and not even a plantain or a
plump mangosteen would tempt him to
break his silence. A truculent little green
bird, no bigger than a robin, but with the
spirit ot a disgruntled Bayard.
48
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
There were no doors up-stairs except to
the cement shower. All the other doorways
were hung with bead-and-bamboo curtains.
Mathison parted the one which fell between
the corridor and the dining-room. It tinkled
mysteriously as it dropped behind him.
Where was Bob? He listened. He could
hear the parrakeet moving about in his cage.
When agitated, Malachi had a way of pull-
ing himself up to the swing and solemnly
clambering down to the perch, repeating
the maneuver over and over.
Mathison's glance trailed to the curtain
between the dining-room and the living-
room. A broad band of moonshine entered
through one of the windows, broke against
objects, splashed the lower fringe of the
curtain, and ended in a magic pool on the
grass matting.
It seemed to him as if every nerve and
muscle in his body winced and pressed back.
It was almost like a physical blow. It took
a full minute for the vertigo to pass, and
when it passed it left his tongue and lips
dry, his throat hot.
In the center of that magic pool of moon-
shine was a hand, sinisterly inert.
CHAPTER IV
MATHISON fought nausea, terror;
fought the paralysis gathering in his
legs, and pushed through the curtain, feel-
ing along the wall for the key-button to all
the lights. He blinked a moment in the
glare that followed. Then, whichever way
he looked havoc!
The long table, the stands and chairs
overturned, the phonograph - record files
empty and flung about, the glass in the
bookcases shattered and the books in a hel-
ter-skelter, the top of the piano swept clear
of HallowelTs antique bronzes, drawers out,
papers and blue-prints scattered every-
where and the quiet form of his friend on
the floor!
"Bob?" cried Mathison, the anguish of
that moment the greatest he had ever
known. "Bob? . . . God in heaven!"
He knelt. Dead. The body was still
warm. Fifteen or twenty minutes ago
50
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Hallo well had been alive. . . . The length of
a pair of coat-sleeves an infinitesimal thing
like that! Mathison strangled the great,
heaving sob. A pair of coat-sleeves. . . .
The irony of it! But for a trifle like that
he would have been home in time, and this
would never have happened. . . . Bob!
Slowly Mathison rose. The anguish, the
tenderness, slowly left his handsome face.
It became hard, a little older, and there
flashed from his eyes a relentless fury. He
neither cursed nor gesticulated; all his sub-
sequent acts were quiet ones. He prowled
about the room, his scrutiny that of a man
who knew how to hunt for little things; but
he found nothing which would indicate the
identity of the assailants.
A foot or so beyond the Bokhara lay a
small bronze elephant, one of HaUowelTs
paper-weights. Mathison did not touch it;
he would never be able to touch that again.
Bob Hallowell, matey, straight and loyal
and brave! done to death in this fashion!
Mathison leaned against the jamb of the
door, his face in the crook of his elbow. The
one human being he had loved in years as
men sometimes love each other! And while
he had been fussing over the sleeves of a
51
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
civilian's coat, Bob had sobbed out his life
on the floor there ! It was not the end itself,
it was the manner of the end that was so
horrible. Bob, who had always prayed that
he might die at sea!
Mathison flung his arm from his eyes.
The woman in the white pith helmet ! But
immediately he dismissed this idea. There
had been no woman here. Only three men
or more could have beaten down Hallowell,
who was tremendously strong and active.
God, what a fight it had been ! and in the end
probably as he was getting the best of it-
some one had struck him down from behind.
And he had crawled toward the dining-
room; for there was a sinister trail across
the n^ass matting. Dying, he had crawled
toward the dining-room. Why?
In God's name why had he not let them
search? The uselessness of it! He had
thrown away his life to justify an instinct
the active resentment of a brave man against
permitting alien hands to meddle with his
belongings. Bob had always been without
guile, moral resiliency; like a bulldog, he
had never retreated, stepped back.
"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco? . . .
Malachi !" Once more that singular wail.
M
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison shuddered. It was horrible to
hear the bird scream these familiar words.
All at once he was struck by an oddity.
Malachi had never wailed his name like that
before; whenever he uttered it he did so
briskly and cockily. The sight of a blue-
print, however, caused Mathison's thought
to switch instantly into another channel.
No. 9! Now he understood why Bob had
fought. Swiftly Mathison sifted the prints
old ones Hallowell had probably been
mulling over. No. 9 was not among them.
Still, to make sure, he opened the wall safe
behind the piano. This was empty except
for a small red book such as men use to
carry addresses in. He restored the prints
to their hiding-place, but he retained the
book. No. 9, with all HallowelTs new
annotations and computations, in the hands
of the enemy! What if they had no key-
print? What mattered it if they could not
apply the principle, so long as they under-
stood that this menace existed, of what it
comprised?
"Damn them all into the blackest depth
of hell the low, murderous sneaks!"
Once more the militant sailor, he stepped
to the telephone which was attached to the
53
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
wall and took down the receiver. He stared
blankly into the black cup of the transmitter
and slowly replaced the receiver on the
hook. Wires cut, outside somewhere, and
all official Manila to be notified at once of
the double catastrophe! He would be
obliged at once to run down to the govern-
or's bungalow.
A sickening weakness swept over him
again. He reached blindly around for a
chair, righted it and sat down, with his
head in his hands. He would have to get a
good grip on himself before starting out.
After a while he raised his head and kept
his gaze upon the walls of the room, with
strange detachment noted many of the
curiosities which sailors pick up in Oriental
ports, not for their intrinsic value, but for
their associations. A good deal of it was
junk, from a collector's point of view; but
Mathison knew that there was not money
enough in the world to buy a single blade,
pistol, bird wing, butterfly, claw. He would
keep them always.
It was dreadful to sit there, blinking and
choking and trying not to look. It was
almost as if the body cried out: "Look at
me! Look at me!" A terribly compelling
54
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
attraction! Damn them! They had ran-
sacked the room while Bob lay there sob-
bing out his life.
Air! The room was stifling him. He
staggered out to the east veranda. Here
he fell to pacing and gradually his strength
returned.
"Malachi!" cried the parrakeet, but
briskly now. The sound of one of his
masters moving about reassured him; for
these odd little ringnecks recognize their
friends even as dogs recognize theirs.
But the living master no longer heeded.
Up and down the veranda Mathison strode,
his step now springy and noiseless. He was
in full command of his faculties. From
time to time he made gestures; they were
catlike. To tear, bruise, rend! A cold
berserker rage had taken possession of him,
one of those upheavals of hate which, in-
stead of blinding, clarify, the fires of which
burn steadily until the end is attained.
Only strong natures are capable of sustain-
ing it. Mathison saw the future with as-
tonishing clearness. An eye for an eye.
a tooth for a tooth!
"Mat, you lubber, where's my tobacco?"
called Malachi.
55
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
This time Mathison heard with com-
prehension. He paused, struck by a sin-
gularly bizarre thought. Malachi! Sup-
posing that was it? Supposing Hallowell
had called out to Malachi the name of the
man? A chance shot in the dark that the
bird might remember and repeat it?
This trend of cogitation was interrupted
by a furious ringing of the gate bell.
The visitor proved to be Morgan of the
Intelligence. He was out of breath from
running.
"Anything wrong in these diggings?"
"Hallowell is dead," said Mathison,
gravely.
"The devil! Murdered?"
"Yes."
"I knew it! I felt it in my bones. Al-
ways something on this order when she
passes. And like a yokel, I let her slip
through my fingers! . . . Hell!"
"No woman did this."
"Actually, no; potentially, yes."
"How did you learn anything was wrong?
The telephone wire has been cut."
"She came along in a carriage. Stopped
just as I was about to enter the governor's
bungalow. Said she'd seen men fighting
56
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
here shadows on the curtain. And I let
her get away!"
"In a white pith helmet?" asked Mathi-
son, with the first sign of eagerness he had
shown.
"Yes. Been hunting all over town for
her. You saw her, then?"
" Just as I left the trolley."
"Get a good look?"
"No. Light clothes and pith helmet
gave me the impression that she might be
young."
"Young," mused the Intelligence man,
ironically. "Well, yes; young and beauti-
ful and the innocent expression of a child,
with the heart of a hell-cat. I pick up
lots of odds and ends in my business, unoffi-
cial stuff. This female once tried to wreck
Hallowell; and she never forgave him for
having a spine."
"She?"
"Yes. Ever heard of a woman called
The YeUow Typhoon?"
"No," said Mathison, after a moment.
"Well, perhaps a man like you wouldn't.
But ask the gay lads from Yokohama to
Shanghai, and they'll tell you Typhoon is a
happy choice. . . . God's name, look at this
5 57
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
room! What a fight! . . . And I stood
yawping while she ran away again! Well,
she sha'n't get outside the Bay. You may
lay to that. Now then, anything missing?"
"A blue-print, relative to the U-boat
business."
"But I thought that completed and out
of the way!"
"It is; but Bob had some ends to tighten
up. . . . My God, Morgan, they struck him
from behind! He was beating them off,
and they struck him from behind!"
"Buck up, Mathison! You mustn't let
this get you. There's a whale of a man's
job in front of you. Uncle Sam's depend-
ing on you to get to Washington. Don't
let this get to your nerves . . . Old Bob Hallo-
well! I'll round up the suspects. I'll
crucify them, but some one will speak. How
valuable was the print?"
"It will give them an idea of what they'll
be up against, and that will rob the thing
of fifty per cent, of its value. The surprise
will be gone."
"I see. Bad business. They'll try to
get East; Mexican wireless. Well, it will
take a clever man or woman to slip through
my net; and I'll settle it inside an hour.
58
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
I suppose they came by the river. We'll
take a look-see there later. Remember
this is ordinary burglary with murder. It
won't do to let the public know that any-
thing serious has happened to our war
plans."
"My friend! . . . And he was so happy to
have done something for his country!"
"But keep hold of yourself. Don't let
this break you down. It's up to you to
make Hallowell's plans good. Keep that in
your head."
"The YeUow Typhoon/
" That's the name. I'll describe her later.
Where's your servant?"
"Out. . . . An eye for an eye!"
"That's the way to talk!" said Morgan,
patting Mathison on the shoulder. "And
nothing will hurt the Hun so much as your
safe arrival in Washington. . . . Poor devil!"
he added, under his breath.
CHAPTER V
MATHISON, his pipe dead in his teeth,
leaned against the starboard rail and
stared with unseeing eyes. It was Sunday,
the first day out of Manila. The north-
east trade was blowing briskly and the blue
Pacific flashed and tumbled.
Loneliness. Never had he known any-
thing like this before. A sudden inexplic-
able craving for crowds, talk, laughter . . .
women! With Bob at his elbow, night
after night, he hadn't been conscious of a
void in his life. Woman. No doubt he
was a madman, a kind of super-madman,
to have held out as long as he had. Nerves.
It was quite possible that the craving would
subside and he would become normal, once
his raw nerves had steadied down.
His errand was in jeopardy. He would
soon need all of his cunning, all his strength,
to pull through. He had set for himself
something more than the mere role of a
60
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
secret messenger. He had buckled on the
sword of Nemesis. An eye for an eye, a
tooth for a tooth. He was letting his grief
dig in too deeply. He must find some di-
version shortly or he was done for.
He had had to fight Morgan bitterly to
win his point. Morgan maintained that
the arrival of the blue-print in Washington
would be vengeance enough for^any reason-
able man. In the end, however, he had
surrendered, reluctantly agreed not to dis-
turb the passengers beyond careful scrutiny
of their passports. But why had the taci-
turn Morgan chuckled, thwacked him jovi-
ally on the shoulder, and continued chuck-
ling as he went down the gang-plank just
before it was hauled aboard? Mathison
was still mystified over this peculiar con-
duct.
Anyhow, one thing was off his mind.
That long, thick manila envelope was in
the purser's safe. It did not matter that
the purser might still be cudgeling his
brains as to the why and wherefore of the re-
markable decorations on the face of that
envelope for which the owner had not re-
quired a receipt of deposit.
There were twenty-one first-class passen-
61
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
gers and eighty steerage. Mathison had
applied himself intensively to the memori-
zation of the twelve descriptions in that
little red book of HallowelTs. None of the
first-class passengers tallied. It was con-
ceivable that his enemies would keep under
cover until they were ready to strike; and
nowhere could they keep hidden so well as
in the steerage, among the Chinese, Japan-
ese, Filipinos, and Russians.
They had found Paolo in the Pasig River,
a hundred gold in his pocket, conclusive
evidence of two things that the servant had
betrayed his master and had known too
much for the safety of the men who had
bribed him.
Mathison knocked the dottle from his
pipe, turned toward the smoking-room,
when he saw a book coming along the deck,
flopping and bumping like a gull with a
broken wing. He recovered it. Probably
it belonged to some passenger aft the smoke-
room. The Life of the Bee: Maeterlinck.
There was nothing on the fly-leaf to indi-
cate the ownership, however. He tucked
it under his arm and walked aft.
In a steamer-chair between the port and
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
starboard projections of the deck-house
was a woman. He recognized her as the old
lady who occupied the cabin opposite to his
on the main deck. A gray cashmere shawl
was wrapped about her head and shoulders.
The rest of her body was snug in the folds
of a plaid rug. A wisp of gray hair, the
sport of the wind, was fluttering, now across
her forehead, now above the edge of the
shawl. She wore a pair of mandarin spec-
tacles with amber lenses. Mathison could
not tell whether she was asleep or awake.
Nevertheless he approached. The craving
for companionship was not to be denied.
"I beg your pardon," he began, "but per-
haps this book is yours. It came galloping
around to starboard from this direction."
"Thank you. I saw it start on its jour-
ney, but I was too lazy to go after it." She
held out her hand concealed in a gray
cotton glove and he laid the book on it.
It did not occur to him then, but it did
later, that the voice was singularly rich
and full for one who appeared to be well
along in the 'sixties. But he was not un-
aware of the fact that breeding and educa-
tion may preserve the tonal quality of a
voice through life.
63
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"You ought to have a chair in a more
comfortable place," he suggested; "out
where the sun is."
"That's just my difficulty. The sun
bothers my eyes, and I'm obliged to find
nooks where it cannot reach me. We old
folks have to be careful. Won't you sit
down?"
He opened a chair and sat on the foot-
rest, conscious of a vague exhilaration; it
was the human look of her and the human
sound of her voice.
"My name is Mathison."
"And mine is Chester Mrs. Hattie M.
Chester. My cabin is opposite yours. If
a submarine should pop up, you'll promise
to come for me?"
" I promise. But there won't be any subs
over here except in dreams."
"Something to scare naughty children
with. I see."
The hint of raillery convinced Mathison
that there was a vigorous, fearless person-
ality under the shawl and the rug. What
a curious spot to select! Swinging gray
shadows that passed and repassed, baffling
scrutiny in a most amazing manner.
The conversation turned upon the war,
64
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
and here again she surprised him by her
clear understanding of what was happening
to the world.
" You've a son over in France?" he vent-
ured.
"No, unfortunately. But if I had a
thousand sons, I'd disown them one and all
if they weren't over there. Once upon a
time white men worshiped many gods.
To-day where are they? To-morrow we
shall laugh when one speaks of kings. The
Teuton idea did not invade Belgium so
much as it dug its own grave. . . . Oh, if I
were a man!"
Mathison smiled something he hadn't
expected ever to do again! He asked her
what she was doing alone in this part of the
world. She had had a nervous breakdown
in the spring, and her doctor had advised
her to take a long sea voyage.
"And where else could I take a sea
voyage? I always wanted to see India,
China, Japan. I suppose you are going
back to enlist?"
"No, I am going home to fight. I am
already in the service."
"What arm?"
"The navy. I have been transferred to
65
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the Atlantic/' he admitted, frankty. "I'm
to command a destroyer in British waters."
"Splendid! And you are traveling in
mufti?"
"A special dispensation." He sought a
safer channel. "You are rather brave,
to tour this part of the world these days."
"Gray hairs go safely anywhere. Besides,
I've a French maid who is something of a
grenadier. I am not afraid of anything . . .
except ghosts!"
This time Mathison laughed. He was
positively enjoying himself. Then he recol-
lected that he hadn't fed Malachi. He rose.
"I've a little parrakeet in the cabin, and
I've forgotten to feed him."
"Does he talk?"
"In three languages Hindustani, Span-
ish, and Yankee."
"Bring him up. One like those I saw
in Agra, flying about in the ruined fort?"
"Yes; green, with a lemon collar. I'll
bring him up this afternoon at tea."
"To-morrow morning. The sun is in
this corner in the afternoon."
"You ought to walk."
"I shall ... at night."
"I'll bring the bird up to-morrow, then."
66
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"And thanks for returning the book."
This was the beginning of what may be
written down as one of the most amazing
situations ever devised by Fate. The wom-
an behind those amber spectacles was
young, and it was the youth of her that
drew Mathison, though he was utterly un-
conscious of this fact drew him morning
after morning as the magnetic pole draws
the needle of the compass.
By the time the ship reached Honolulu
and went on his depression was a thing of
memory; his nerves became normal; he was
more alive than he had been in years. With
all the cunning of her superb art she made
her lure one of motherhood, so irresistible
that he no longer bothered his head over
her avoidance of sunlight or the fact that if
he saw her at night it was by the port rail,
her back to the moonshine. There was one
clear thought regarding her: what a com-
rade she must have been to the man she
once called husband! Whimsical, deeply
learned, sound in philosophy, humorous,
and unafraid: she made him think of his
mother; and all the tenderness he had bot-
tled up in his lonely heart these fourteen
years went out to her. Lightly he fell into
67
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the habit of calling her Mother, and in her
turn she called him Boy.
For all the pleasure and satisfaction he
found in this companionship, there was a
line and he never crossed it. Of his own
affairs he was remarkably reserved. Sev-
eral times merely as a test she laid traps
for him, but each time he evaded them.
Morgan to whom she had gone sensibly
with a frank confession had summed up
this odd handsome young man: "He is
likely to fool you. Under that amiable
exterior there is a lot of blood and iron
stuff. Always keep that in mind. Just
now he is in a bad shape. Get him out of
it. He's a bit of a mollycoddle where
women are concerned, but among men he
is an ace."
Had Mathison been of her world a world
to which she was returning gladly, though
she had left it indifferently enough he
would soon have seen through her art, clever
and vigilant as it was. She could not dis-
guise the slender youthfulness of her foot.
No hand sixty-odd years old could be so
firmly fleshed. The gray glove hid nothing.
But his guilelessness served to carry her
over a rather shaky bridge.
68
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
On the third night out of Honolulu it
was near eleven Mathison stood in the
little shelter between one of the life-boats
and the rail, whence he could look down into
the waist, at the recumbent forms of the
steerage passengers who were sleeping on
deck. Night after night he had watched
from_this lookout; but moonlight and star-
light had a way of dissolving and blotting
out salients.
To-night, however, his persistence was
rewarded. From the black rectangle of the
companion door a Chinese woman, appar-
ently of high caste, stepped forth. She
stood poised for a moment, then trotted
across to starboard and laid her arms on
the broad teak rail. She wore a radiant
jacket, full of gold thread which caught
the moonshine and threw it back a spider-
web hung with dew. She was smoking a
cigarette.
He knew China; and suddenly he sensed
something wrong, and discovered the flaw.
No Chinese woman, high or low, ever wore
such a thing on her head. Mathison
couldn't have named it; but a white woman
would have had no difficulty. It was a
dainty boudoir cap.
One of the recumbent forms on the deck
rose slowly. A big man, with blouse, boots,
and cap of the Russian soldier; the peak of
the cap was drawn well down. He lounged
over to the Chinese woman, and the two
began to talk. Presently Mathison heard
the woman laugh. It was unmistakably
Occidental laughter.
So! For a long time Mathison stared,
but he was too far away to gather an im-
pression such as might count in the future.
Sooner or later he would see the face of
this Chinese woman who laughed white.
He would never forget Morgan's descrip-
tion of the woman called The Yellow Ty-
phoon . . . the woman who had tried to
break Bob Hallowell and might have been
one of the contributing causes of his death.
Old Bob! An eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth ! Let them begin the play. He was
ready.
He had reasoned, and with sound logic,
that his enemies might not strike at all while
crossing, to lull him into a false sense of
security, so that once they stepped ashore
they might find he had grown careless, over-
confident. One thing, they would never be
able to get into his cabin when he was out
70
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
of it. The night and day stewards de-
pendable Japs had been liberally subsi-
dized. One or the other was invariably on
guard up to the hour Mathison turned in
for the night. With the Manila envelope
in the purser's safe, the human wall around
his cabin, an attack would have small chance
of success. No doubt they were already
aware of his precautions.
On the night before making San Fran-
cisco, however, he was given an insight as
to the patience and Machiavellian range of
the Teuton forces opposing him. It was
twelve when he turned in an hour later
than usual. As he came abreast his cabin
companionway, he stopped, rocked to the
bottom of his soul. The Japanese steward
was plunging toward him at top speed.
Mathison spread out his arms, but the little
brown man dipped, eluded him, and flashed
up the main companion.
Against the opposite side of the cabin
companionway stood the gray lady . . .
Malachi's cage hugged tightly to her bosom!
CHAPTER VI
WITH the blood pounding in his throat,
Mathison rushed to her side. He saw
that the lights were on in his cabin.
"Just a moment . . . until I get my
breath!"
"The steward . . . ?"
"No, no! Ran out to identify the man,
if possible. I'm afraid there's something
deadly in your room."
"But Malachi!" The bird was huddled
on the bottom of his cage, a bad sign.
Mathison dashed into the cabin, inhaled
sharply, and his inhalation thrilled him. An
unknown but pleasant odor tingled his
nostrils. His glance roved quickly. On
the floor, under the port, was a brown box,
perforated. He seized it and tossed it
through the port-hole, beyond the rail, into
the sea. Then he stepped out into the
companion.
"Come! . . . Outside, where the air moves.
72
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
. . . Malachi!" Mathison's voice broke.
"Hurry!"
She followed him, still clutching the cage
and wondering if he would remark her eyes,
now without the baffling spectacles. He
led her to a spot where the rail opened,
took the cage from her, and set it on the
deck. He sat down beside it, and she
imitated him.
"The poor little bird!" she murmured.
Was the wig on straight? She dared not
put up her hand to feel.
Mathison stared at Malachi. He should
have taken a cabin in the lower deck. Still,
he couldn't understand how the port had
been opened. He had kept it locked, de-
spite the stuffiness. No matter. Inspec-
tion would solve that. Thought he had
turned in. He had, until to-night, gone to
the cabin regularly at eleven; and they had
planned the stroke accordingly. Their only
hope of entering the cabin was after mid-
night, when he was in it. He had liberally
subsidized the two Jap stewards. Day and
night the companion was guarded. But
after midnight the companion was empty.
Clever. To stupefy him, to send him into
a deep, artificial slumber, force his door and
6 73
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ransack his belongings leisurely. He was con-
fident the fume was innocuous beyond the
sleep-producing effect. But Malachi . . .
it would have been the death of Malachi.
He still clung to that idea. He had read
of such things, but until now had never con-
sidered them in the light of facts. If
Hallowell had called to Malachi, the little
bird knew. But would he ever speak?
Had he understood that one of his masters
had been trying to tell him something?
Every morning for an hour Mathison
had worked patiently to get the bird to
speak; but, aside from grumbling hi parra-
keetese, Malachi refused to utter a word.
All this confusion annoyed him. There was
a strange swing to the world, now up, now
down, now from side to side. It kept his
temper, normally irascible, in a state of
feverish vindictiveness. True, he would
climb up Mathison's arm, nip his master's
ear gently the only way he had of express-
ing affection; but he was generally unhappy.
"I don't know why," said the gray lady,
when Mathison's silence began to get upon
her nerves, "but my first thought was of
Malachi. I ... you have told me so often
how much you loved him."
74
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"And you have probably saved him. In
ten minutes he would have been dead."
Malachi turned slowly head-on to the
wind. The beak was closed. This was a
good sign.
"Malachi, old boy?"
The woman stifled the sob that rose in
her throat. A strong, vigorous man, young,
handsome beyond ordinary, all alone but
for the little green bird. Why? What was
the meaning of this self-imposed isolation?
"A mollycoddle so far as women were con-
cerned." Why, there was nothing about
him to suggest bashfulness. She had not
studied him through all these hours without
learning that fundamentally he was light-
hearted in temperament and tremendously
interested in living. No woman in the
background, for he was not cynical. And
here he was, his sole companion a Hindu-
stani parrakeet.
Mathison thrust a finger into the cage,
and Malachi struck at it drunkenly.
"He'll come around. I can't thank you;
I haven't the words. But it would have
broken my heart if anything had happened
to him. Won't you please tell me exactly
what happened?"
75
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
She did not begin at once. She had to
weigh her words. She must never let him
suspect that, night after night, she never
went to bed until she heard him enter his
cabin. What a coil ! He would never know
who she was! To-morrow, after land-
ing, the gray lady would vanish forever.
Only a few months gone her existence had
been joyous, if strenuous; and now there
would be always at her side a shadow and a
fear. She had stepped upon a whirligig,
and perspectives were no longer clear. The
horizon of the future was dark with com-
plications. She dreaded New York, and
she was honor-bound to return. Berta in
New York? The kite in the dove-cote?
Escapades which would become the talk
of the town and which the public would
naturally lay at her door. She shivered.
Yes, to-morrow she must vanish com-
pletely, even though she would always be
close at hand, all the way across the conti-
nent. The Yellow Typhoon! Her heart
swelled in bitterness. He would never
know. Filled with the grim business of
war, he would be rushing in and about
Washington or the great naval yards. He
would spend his leave in activities which
76
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
concerned his future. There would be only
one chance in a thousand of his stumbling
upon the truth and finding her. Ah, but
if he should!
"I could not sleep," she began. "I left
my door open and knelt on the lounge to
watch the sea. I don't know how long I
remained in that position. Suddenly I
observed a man stealing along the rail. His
face was in a complete shadow. I watched
him. He stopped in front of your port-
hole, then approached it. This looked so
suspicious that I stepped into the compan-
ion. Your door was open the width of the
hook, and I could see the port-hole clearly.
I saw the glass swing inward. There was
plenty of moonshine. I saw an arm reach
into the port-hole and something was
dangling at the end of the shadowy hand.
Quickly I threw up the hook, opened your
door, and turned on the lights. Saki, the
steward, came running up. In a word I
told him what had happened. There was a
peculiar odor in the air. I caught up the cage
and rushed out . . . just as you appeared."
"All my life I shall be grateful. I can't
explain anything to you, much as I'd like
to. You will never realize what your com-
77
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
panionship has done to buck me up. I
came aboard very nearly a broken man."
"Boy, you don't have to confide." She
laid a hand on his arm.
"I'm an odd duffer. They used to call
me mollycoddle, back at Annapolis, until I
had whipped half the class. And all the
while I've been just as normal as the aver-
age man." There was a pause. "You
know Kipling?"
"His books? Yes."
"Then you remember that yarn called
'Love o' Women'? My father ... he was
like that. Handsome and lovable and weak
in fiber. He was also in the navy. For a
hundred years we Mathisons have been in
the army or navy. We had money. We
were soldiers and sailors from choice. My
father died when I was sixteen. He died
terribly. He broke my mother's heart.
But I knew nothing of that until after his
burial. Then one day she called me to
her. ... I wish you could have seen and
heard her. Tender and plucky and beauti-
ful ... and unafraid. She talked to me as
fathers always should talk to their sons.
Frankly and truthfully she drew life. I
had the example of my father. She told
78
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
me that somewhere in the world there was
a mate for me. Should I take her a clean
heart or a muddy one? Should I know real
happiness or should I choose a bed like my
father's? I listened, dulled and appalled.
Then she asked me to promise to go clean.
There's a point. We Mathisons always
keep our promises. It is the motto on the
shield. But we never give our promises
hastily. My mother knew that. My fa-
ther had never made her any promises of
reformation. He knew he would have
kept them. She told me to fight it out,
then come and tell her what I had chosen
to do with my soul and body."
"And you promised!"
"Yes. And I've kept it. She died shortly
after. The wild streak was in my blood.
I've had to fight. I have sown my wild
oats in work and adventure. This took
away a good deal of the gregarious in-
stinct. I have fought wild beasts on foot;
I have explored poisonous swamps; I have
climbed precipices and always the thing
tugged at me."
"And the dream-woman?"
"I'm afraid she's been a little too long
in coming."
79
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"But how would you know?"
"I'd know. I can't tell you how or why.
Only, I shall know. Something will tell
me. I wonder, am I a mollycoddle?"
"Boy," she said, pressing his arm, for
she hadn't taken her hand away, "I did
not believe that there was such a man in
all this world. Why, you have won your
Marne! . . . And she will come, this mate,
for God is just. If I had a son, I'd want
him like you. All mothers long for sons
like you. . . . She will come!"
"She'll have to hurry," he replied, lightly.
"I'm heading into the war zone. I may
never come back." He laid his free hand
on hers. "I wonder if I can make you
understand what your kindness has done
for me? When I came on board I was all
but done for. I had just lost the one human
being I loved. May I come and see you in
New York?"
"I shall be waiting for you. You have
my address."
Later, in her cabin, while sleepy Sarah
brushed and aired the wavy coils of hair
which had been confined all day beneath
the hot wig, she turned with shining eyes
eyes like purple grapes in the rain.
80
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Sarah, am I beautiful?"
"Ah, madame, all the world ..."
" Bother the world. What do you think?"
"I? Madame is more than beautiful.
She is famous. She is good. She is worthy
of a good man, of many healthy children."
Her mistress laughed. "Thanks, Sarah.
That is all I wished to know."
"Will madame continue wearing this
make-up?"
"I shall change it for another in the
cab that takes us from the dock to the
train to-morrow."
When the ship lay alongside her pier the
following afternoon Mathison put in his
buttonhole the bit of green ribbon. Then
he rang for the steward, assigned the cage
and one of the two kit-bags to his care,
took the other himself, and went up on
deck to bid Mrs. Chester good-by.
"Good-by," she said from behind a
heavy veil. "You will not forget me?"
"Never in this world! I have your ad-
dress. I'll dig up New York from one end
to the other but I'll find you, little mother!"
"Take care of yourself. And please
come and find me!" But she went down
81
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the gang-plank with a queer, empty feeling
in her heart. He might find her, but the
gray lady would shortly vanish forever.
Had she been mothering him? Or had
sne been attracted from another angle?
She had never met a man like this before,
worldly in his understanding, handsome,
virile, a man's man, but an utter child in
the presence of a woman. Perhaps the at-
traction was its novelty. Hitherto she
had looked upon men cynically. She was
like one who had been chasing a mirage
across the desert, to find a water-hole un-
expectedly.
It had been so easy to deceive him. Her
voice, the roundness of her body, the firm-
ness of her hand and foot, these hadn't
told him anything. How many times had she
almost reached out to rumple his hair? Why
hadn't she? Why did she want to? She
carried this riddle with her for many days.
Mathison walked down the gang-plank
into the vast shed. Almost at once a man
approached him and handed him an en-
velope. He made off without a word.
Mathison, without glancing at the envelope,
stuffed it hi his pocket and proceeded toward
82
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the customs barrier. He passed this with
little or no delay, got into a taxicab and was
driven to the ferry. Over in Oakland he
found the train made up, so he went into
his compartment immediately. He put
away the green ribbon and rang for the
porter.
"Screens in the window," he said
"Yes, suh."
"I shall ring for you whenever I need
you. Knock three times shortly on the
door when you answer."
"Yes, suh."
"I shall have my meals in here. Always
bring the waiter to the door yourself."
"Yes, suh," said the porter, the whites of
his eyes growing.
"Follow these instructions and you will
be ten dollars richer when we draw into
Omaha. That will be all."
Mathison left the door wide open until
the arrival of the conductor, when he pro-
duced the envelope he had so mysteriously
received. It contained his tickets. After
surrendering these, he closed and locked the
door and took inventory. Imitation ma-
hogany steel. Above the little door in the
lavatory was an electric fan. He discovered
83
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that one of the windows went up easily.
When his bunk was made up he would be
able to reach the light and fan buttons
without difficulty.
"Well, Malachi, old scout, this is America.
How do you like it?"
Malachi teetered on his perch grouchily.
"I'm beginning to think that you're
Irish a Sinn-Feiner. You don't like any-
body, anything, or anywhere. Poor little
beggar! I wonder if you'll ever chatter
again. I suppose I'd better break the news
to you. When we get to New York I'm
going to give you away. Yes, sir. To the
dearest old lady a chap ever had the good
fortune to meet. To have met a woman
like that . . . when she was young! My luck !
They call us idiotic Yankees, these Huns,
Malachi ; but we're going to fool them.
Ever see a spider weave his web and then
wait for the fly to walk in? Wait and see!"
Mathison turned slowly and faced the
rear partition. He stretched out his arms
and curled his fingers sinisterly, his jaws
set, a savage luster in his eyes.
"With these two hands, by God! ... All
right, Bob. Trust me to see it through."
But how was he going to secure that blue-
84
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
print No. 9? He possessed the power to
search every human being on this train. That
would, if used, serve to recover the print;
but it would set Messrs, the Flies winging
to parts unknown the moment they sus-
pected what was on foot. The long arm oi
the Secret Service at his beck and call, and
he would not dare to use it! Beyond iden-
tifying himself to the watching agents by
the display of the green ribbon, he would
never dare call for help. His enemies would
be in this train, probably in this very car:
they would be on the same trains all the
way to New York, whither he must draw
them. Once there, he would not have much
difficulty in recovering No. 9. But if they
mailed it! If it entered their calculations
to mail it!
How many against him? He would never
know until the end. The Yellow Typhoon?
Let the vipers beware! Morgan had de-
scribed her minutely, but Mathison doubted
he would recognize her unless she entered
some extraordinary situation.
To live in this infernal bulkhead for days,
eating, sleeping, reading that would be
the supreme test, that would prove whether
the metal in him was iron-casting or forged
85
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
steel. Never to question the porters, to
confuse his enemies by a grim silence, to
force them into offensives out of sheer
curiosity.
"We idiotic Yankees!"
That night as he lay in his berth it was
after one o'clock solving mathematical
problems which had to do with jumps be-
tween trains, he became conscious of a
pleasant odor. He recognized it. Instantly
he sat up and hauled away at the window.
Next he brought over Malachi and lowered
the covering of the cage. The cold night
air came in at the rate of a gale. Then he
remembered the fan. He groped for the
button, and the fan began to hum. Still
he could smell the fumes. Suddenly he
laughed. It was the cold, tranquil laughter
of a man who had lived among men. He
pressed the porter's bell. If there was any
one waiting in the corridor, he would have
to move on. But if the porter did not
arrive !
The porter, however, came almost at
once. Mathison, holding his automatic
behind his back, opened the door full wide.
"Any way of getting a cup of coffee?"
"No, suh."
86
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Sorry to have bothered you, then."
All Mathison wanted was an open door
for a minute or two a clearing draught.
When he shut the door there was only a
vague taint. Clever work. Not a lethal
fume; neither his heart nor his lungs were
troubled in the least. A sleep fume. There
had been an almost irresistible desire to
curl up and let the world go hang.
Malachi's feathers were ruffled, but he
clung to his perch, his eyes beaming with
their usual malignancy.
How had they gotten the fumes Into the
compartment? Forward there was no dan-
ger, as he was occupying No. 1. He went
over every square inch of the base of the
rear partition. In the corner under the
berth & difficult spot to get to he found
an oily thimbleful of steel filings. He
drenched a towel and dammed the aperture.
Compressed air had forced the fumes into
the compartment. Evidently they were
going to keep him awake nights !
So his friends were next door! Some-
thing to find that out. But what was the
idea? They could not force that door
without dynamite. Had they speculated
upon his running out into the corridor?
87
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Or was this the beginning of a series of night
attacks to break him down physically and
mentally? ... To keep him awake until he
threw caution to the winds! There vrere
big storms forward; there would be delays.
Very well; he would sleep afternoons and
stand watch through the night. A man's
job.
The next offensive came while they were
crossing the Rockies. It had caliber. It
convinced Mathison that he was dealing
with a man of brains, a man who was not
untrained in psycho-analysis. They ran
afoul a tremendous storm in the mountains
and became stalled for several hours be-
cause of a fallen snow-shed. It was near
eleven o'clock when the porter came along
and announced what had happened.
Though Mathison was sleeping as much
as he could through the day, he undressed
at night, propped himself up under the
reading globe and studied navigation pecul-
iar these days to British waters. Round
about midnight he heard a pistol-shot,
another, then a fusillade from opposite
directions. He jumped out of his berth
and got into some of his clothes and sat
down suddenly, grinning. Had he been
88
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
dressed they would have got him! What
would be surer to call forth a fighting-man
than the sound of shots in the night? They
were going to keep him thinking fast. They
wanted him out in the open.
Before the train reached Omaha a day
and a half late Mathison began to feel the
strain. Sleep in the afternoon is never
energy-producing- a number of minutes
pass into oblivion, that is all; body and
brain stand still; they do not recuperate.
Mathison, upon coming out of these naps,
felt as if he had been playing cards for
hours. He had to apply cold water to shake
off the lethargy. _ He was full of confidence,
however.
There wasn't any doubt at all that they
were after his nerves. The door-knob
rattled mysteriously during the small hours
of the night. Whenever the train stopped
there was clicking on the window-pane.
But he never opened the door nor raised
the window-curtain. The vantage was still
on his side of the net. While he knew what
they were attempting to do, they hadn't the
least idea where their endeavors were get-
ting them.
At Omaha passengers for Chicago would
7 89
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
be transferred to another train. Mathison
was last to leave. He put the green ribbon
hi his buttonhole, picked up the kit-bag
which contained the manila envelope, and
sauntered forth. The freshness of the win-
ter air and the joy of swinging his arms and
legs freely!
The porter preceded him with the bag
and Malachi. He did not hurry. He was
among a dozen or so moving in the same
direction. As he reached the platform of
the new car two men broke away from the
group and hurried off toward the gates.
Negligible and unnoticed, unless you knew
what it signified. On the lounge in his
compartment which was still No. 1 he
discovered some novels and a bundle of the
latest magazines. A present from the Se-
cret Service. He would look through them
all with particular care. There might be
a message.
A point in passing. If Mathison was
confusing his enemies he was also confusing
the various chiefs of the Secret Service
along the route. Here, the latter reasoned,
was a man who temporarily possessed colos-
sal power. Orders had come from Washing-
ton to obey him absolutely. He could
90
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
commandeer a car for himself, a diner, put
operatives in the cars fore and aft, order
the arrests of suspects, knock railway sched-
ules galley-west; and to date he had issued
but two orders to engage No. 1 compart-
ment on all trains and to have three taxi-
cabs at the station in Chicago. And these
orders had come from mid-Pacific by wire-
less. On the other hand, they appreciated
the fact that if Mathison could make it on
his own, so much the better. Still, they
were puzzled.
There were three novels. As Mathison
idly riffled the pages of one he saw a word
underscored. He followed this clue, and
at length came upon the message: "You
understand your powers? Car straight to
Washington if you order it." Mathison
chuckled. If the Secret Service was baffled,
what was going on in the minds of the men
following him? He had determined from
the start to send no wires. The green
ribbon must suffice. Telegrams passing to
and fro might create confusion, alarm the
quarry.
There were two empty compartments
on this car 4 and 5. Mathison had
No. 1. No. 2 was occupied by a man with
91
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion
and a woman with a charming mole at one
corner of her mouth. In No. 3 were two
men, playing canfield. In No. 6 there were
two women.
Both women had entered the car heavily
veiled the woman in 6 and the woman in
2. Neither removed the veil until the con-
ductor passed. From San Francisco to
Omaha, all on the same car; and they would
be on the same car from Omaha to Chicago.
Mathison nor the woman in 2 had stepped
outside their compartments until this trans-
fer from one car to the other. But the
woman in 6 walked the corridor at all hours
of the day and night, her face hidden behind
a thick gray veil. Her maid, however,
brought all the meals to the compartment.
The blond man stood up and put a cigar
between his teeth.
"Well, once more luck is with us. And
yet I am vaguely puzzled."
"Over what?" snapped the woman with
the mole, irritably.
"It is almost too easy" scowling.
'The stupid Yankee pigs!"
"Not this one, Berta. We haven't got
him clear in the open yet."
92
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Ah! Then you are beginning to doubt
that superior efficiency of yours? . . . I'm
tired. To keep me cooped up like this!"
"You may open your wings as wide as
you please, once we are in New York."
"But if he goes on this way?"
"I have still some traps. There will be
a little journey in Chicago between one
station and the other. Who knows what
may happen?"
"But why coop me up?"
"The hour may come when I shall need
you. If he saw you it would not be possible.
Did Hallowell have a photograph of you?"
"In his watch-case. . But he destroyed
it the night he left me." She frowned.
"Nevertheless, he must never see you.
On board the ship it was your impatience
that caused me to fail. We merely put him
on his guard. The blue-prints were in the
purser's safe, and his signature was not in
the receipt-book. Have patience. No man
is perfect. Patience often overcomes skill.
Sooner or later the skilful man grows care-
less, or he forgets, or he comes to believe
he is a godson of luck. And then, there is
the lack of sleep. Somewhere along the
route I'll find a weak spot."
93
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"I hate all Yankees!"
"So do I, Berta. I hate them because
some of them are not boasters. Have pa-
tience. A small city east of Chicago, a
chief of police who likes newspaper noto-
riety. A couple of hours; we sha'n't need
any more than that. New York!" jovially.
"Champagne and beefsteak!" she re-
torted, contemptuously.
"Well, and why not? Haven't I prom-
ised you ah 1 the dresses you can pack in two
trunks? I haven't had a decent meal or
a good cup of coffee since the war began."
"New York! . . . after all these years!"
"Bah! Who in the world will recognize
you? We are a good many miles away
from that gambling-house in the Honan
Road. You're moody. You've missed the
parade for nearly five weeks. You'd be all
right if you could walk through the cars to
the diner and have them gape in wonder at
you. Somewhere between Chicago and
Buffalo we'll use that crook scheme. Now
I'm going in next door for a few rubbers at
bridge."
She did not reply. She turned her face
toward the window and stared out into the
night. New York! What was the matter
94
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
with her that she did not blaze with pleasure
at the thought of New York? Fifth Ave-
nue, Broadway, the theaters, the brilliant
restaurants, the shops why did the thought
of New York set a little chill in her heart?
Were they alive or dead? In all these years
she had not made the least effort to find
out. New York . . . youth that had known
nothing but poverty! With a repellent
gesture she cast out these thoughts and
picked up a fashion magazine.
In compartment 6, the young woman
read a manuscript, while the elderly maid
with the broad, stolid countenance of the
Breton peasant, brushed the golden hair
tenderly. By and by the manuscript flut-
tered to the floor. She knew it so abso-
lutely, even after these months. She stared
at the partition. She saw in fancy a window-
curtain, forms swaying back and forth,
then darkness. She would never be able
to identify the men. She had cried and
shaken the iron bars of the gate until her
palms had peeled.
"Sarah, dear, am I tiring you out?"
"I love to brush your hair, madame."
"I mean the slaving I've set you to."
"No, madame. The only happiness I
95
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
know rests in serving madame faithfully.
Besides, madame has told me that all this
is for France; and that is enough for me, who
am Breton."
"Then I am still beautiful to you?"
The maid smiled. " Madame, that hand-
some young man with the little green
bird . . ."
"Well?"
"Madame is not offended?"
"No, Sarah. Speak on."
"Well, it would appear that madame
and madame knows that I am observing
no longer despises mankind."
"Oh, but he isn't a man, Sarah!"
"But yes, madame!"
"No. He is an anachronism a half-god
who has lost the way to Olympus."
"Ah! If madame is not interested?"
with a sigh of relief.
"Men! How well I know men! The
sameness of them! What do they offer
me? Orchids, hothouse grapes, jewels that
I return. Never a flower that is free and
wild. What is it I want, Sarah? Romance!
A whirlwind, an avalanche, to sweep me up,
to carry me off berserker love! A man
who'll take me if I'm what he wants, with-
96
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
out pursuing me in circles. I am a viking's
daughter! This man? . . . We shall wait
and see. Get me to bed. I am weary."
Meanwhile Mathison went through his
magazines, taking in the pictures first. Then
he fell upon a good story. It was illustrated
by photographs, and one of the photographs
made him forget the story. What was it?
What was it that stirred in the back of his
head at the sight of this bit of dramatized
photography? He studied it near and
afar, from this angle and that, but the lure
remained tantalizingly beyond reach.
Fate never hurries. She takes time in
writing her human scenarios; she can afford
to. She knows that inexorably they will be
enacted, without deviation. She had chosen
this moment to place before Mathison's
eye the photograph of a beautiful young
woman.
The train from Omaha arrived in Chicago
exactly twenty -four hours late. Great
storms were raging across the land.
As Mathison was passing through the
gate the green ribbon in his buttonhole
a man approached him covertly and thrust
an envelope into his hand. More tickets. 1
97
Mathison did not accelerate his stride in
the least. He knew that everything was
prepared for him. Upon reaching the cab-
stand he stopped. At once three taxis
rolled up. Mathison bundled his luggage
into the middle cab, rested Malachi's cage
on his knees, shouted an order, and the
three cabs started off rapidly.
The snow was coming down in thick
sheets. A blizzard was in the offing.
Just outside the regular cab-stand stood
a private car, a heavy, powerful limousine.
As the three taxis rolled away into the
storm a man dashed up to the limousine,
jumped in and called to the chauffeur:
"The middle car; follow that. Smash it
or tip it over. In a storm like this acci-
dents will happen."
The limousine shot forward. The going
was heavy. The man in the limousine saw
the three taxis string out a little as they
went on. What he did not see was the
fourth taxi which followed him.
Almost in a kind of military maneuver
the three taxis forward veered together
suddenly and shot down a side-street. It
took the limousine two minutes to pick
them up again. There were plenty of arc-
98
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
lights, and by the aid of these the pursuer
saw that he had gained a little. They
were strung out again, about fifteen feet
apart. They held this formation for several
blocks.
To the occupant of the limousine this
was baffling as well as maddening. He
saw that until they separated it would be
impossible to ram the middle taxi. He
decided to draw up broadside.
The woman in the fourth taxi laughed.
" Sarah, that young man knows how to
take care of himself. If I should happen
to fire a pistol, you promise not to
scream?"
"Yes, madame."
The young woman laughed again. "Oh,
this is glorious! I feel all my youth com-
ing back. I'm alive! alive! alive! The
fates have appointed me his godmother,
Sarah. My duty is to watch over him
until ... he grows up!"
The maid smiled in the dark.
Presently the man in the limousine cried
out joyfully. The forward cab swooped
north, the rear one south, while the middle
car continued east toward the railway
station.
99
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Now! Beat into it! Anything to stop
it!"
A block farther on the private car and
the taxi collided. The latter reeled toward
the curb and stopped.
CHAPTER VII
AS the man in the limousine jumped out
/~\ his chauffeur pointed his hand menac-
ingly at the chauffeur on the taxicab seat.
That individual raised his arms without
resistance. He could not see the gun, but
he knew it was there.
The man with the straw-colored hair swung
open the door of the taxicab ferociously to
find the cab empty. He whirled back into
the limousine, which was already moving.
The right mud-guard was badly crumpled. J
" Station all the power you've got!"
Tricked. He understood what had hap-
pened. When the taxis had maneuvered
into the side-street the original middle car
had gone either to the front or to the rear.
There was nothing for it but to play his last
card mistaken identity. To get Mathison
away from his luggage for an hour or two.
The occupant of the fourth taxi, also
comprehending what had taken place,
101
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
picked up the speaking-tube and ordered
full speed ahead.
"Sarah, this young man will bear watch-
ing. He has ideas. I doubt if I shall be
necessary to him at all."
"If madame should be hurt ..."
"No bridges' until we come to them.
Keep your veil down. He might be watch-
ing from his car- window when we arrive.
He must never see you."
Mathison was extremely pleased with the
result of his exploit. To have thought out
all these moves in mid-Pacific, and to find
them moving without a hitch! He closed
the door of his compartment and drew the
window-curtains. He pulled down the cov-
ering of Malachi's cage.
"Malachi, you're likely to think cross-
eyed all the rest of your days. But to-
morrow night at this time you'll have
peace and quiet."
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw
a bit of paper come jerkily under the door.
He pounced upon it. v
All compartments 2 on train bought out in ad-
vance; unknown persons. Want anything done
about it? Answer window.
102
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
After a minute's wait Mathison raised
the curtain a little and gave a negative
sign with his hand. Then he dropped upon
the lounge. So that's how it had hap-
pened ! Luck and accident in San Fran-
cisco because travel East had been light,
but a matter of foresight and calculation in
Omaha and Chicago. Confident that he
would always occupy No. 1, that he would
travel a given route as rapidly as transpor-
tation facilities permitted, they had bought
out No. 2 compartments on both trains.
There would be real action from now on.
They would begin to realize that they hadn't
any time to lose. Very well; they would
find him ready. He smiled. The Secret
Service agents were beginning to fidget, the
best possible proof that his plans were
moving forward like clockwork. To-morrow
night the climax! Only a few more strands
and the web would be complete.
"We idiotic Yankees!"
He went to bed early. He was confident
that there would be no more gas. He was
dead for the need of a few hours of recuper-
ative sleep. The jolting ride across town
had helped to dissipate most of the bodily
numbness; but now his brain was crying
103
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
out for oblivion. He fell asleep almost
instantly.
And yet a cessation of movement brought
him out of this profound slumber. It was
as if his subconsciousness had stood on
guard. He peered out from the side of
the curtain. They were in a railway yard
somewhere. Stalled. Freights were all
about and yard engines puffing and whis-
tling. He looked at his watch. Two. He
had slept four hours. He resisted the in-
tense craving to bury his head in the pillow
again. No doubt he had been refreshed act-
ually, but he was still drunk for the want of
sleep. He slipped out of his berth, drenched
a towel and slapped it over his face. Then
he turned on the lights and dressed. When
the right tune came he would sleep forty
hours.
The train went on at four. At dawn it
came to a standstill again and did not stir
until nine. They were on a side-track, and
along the main line freight was roaring and
thundering. What was happening to the
world? A limited, one of the fastest known,
side-tracked for freight! From six until
nine the freight rolled by.
A newspaper! It was almost unbeliev-
104
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
able. He felt rather stunned. He hadn't
held a newspaper in his hands since leaving
Honolulu! He did not actually know
whether the Germans were in Paris or the
Allies in Berlin. So held by the chase
across the continent, giving his every
thought to the affair, he had forgotten that
the world was going on outside this particu-
lar orbit and great events were toward.
Twice again that day there were long de-
lays at sidings, east of towns barely men-
tioned on the map. All the freight in Amer-
ica seemed to be moving east. On schedule
time the train should be passing through
central New York; and here they were,
miles and miles west of Buffalo, the next
real stop. The reporter brought him a
sporting page from one Chicago newspaper
and the editorial page from another. He
was vaguely able to learn that nothing new
had happened Over There, and that there
was a coal famine and a great congestion
at ports for lack of ships.
He began to fuss and fume and fret. He
endeavored a thousand times to find a fresh
angle for his weary shoulders. It couldn't
be done. Pullmans were built for divi-
dends, not comfort.
8 105
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
He wore a gray traveling-suit and a cap
to match. The suit, though new, was in
an astonishingly disreputable state. The
solution is apparent; it does not signify
carelessness. The fact is that you cannot
loll and twist and curl up and at the same
time keep the warp and woof of Scotch
worsteds shipshape.
He yawned, stretched his arms until the
sockets cracked, turned wrathfully and
struck the top of the seat that rolling
lopover which is still one of the mysteries
of modern times. Perhaps, in making the
original car there had been a few yards of
plush and excelsior left over. "Splendid!
Just enough for a pillow on the top of the
seat-back, where no human head might
reach it reposefully.
Mathison jumped to his feet and went
through a bit of setting-up exercise. It
was wasted effort. When a man is bored
to the point where his soul aches along with
his body, what he needs is a mental jolt,
not a quickening of his respiratory organs.
Nothing except that which attacks the eye
surprisingly will serve to pull a man out of
the bog of such lethargy.
Within the compartment, a pressed-steel
106
THE YELLOW TYPHOON.
imitation red mahogany, green plush" and
a bluish haze which was the essence of
many incinerated cigars and consumed
pipes; outside, snow, thick and dusty and
impenetrable. A great rimless, earthless,
skyless world. But for the clatter of
wheel upon rail, the train might have been
speeding through the clouds; the illusion
was almost perfect. Darkness was falling.
Winter! After all these years of tropical
climes !
The confinement was really heartbreak-
ing. Never had he been shut up like this.
And the craving for sleep was becoming a
menace. It wouldn't have been so bad
had he dared move about freely, eat his
meals in the diner, and smoke his cigar or
pipe among men.
On the opposite seat were the magazines
which had been given him in Omaha. He
reached for one of them. He had long since
read all the stories and advertisements.
Whenever monotony reached that point
where it threatened to become insupport-
able he dove for these magazines. He could
keep himself awake with them.
Odd, but he was always returning to that
posed photograph. It haunted him: a
107
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
wonderful bit of photography. Rembrandt
in tone. It was a restaurant scene. The
woman's arms and shoulders were lovely,
but her face was a leaden silhouette, tantal-
izing, until you chanced to look into the
wall mirror at the far side of her. Even
this reflection was dim; but you caught the
beauty of the outline, the quiet strength of
the nose and chin; a rare face, not only
beautiful, but intellectual. For a long time
Mathison stared at it; and then he discov-
ered something he had missed in previous
scrutinies. In the lower right-hand corner,
in very small type, he read, "Posed by
Norma Farrington." Some new actress.
As for that, many new ones had come and
gone since he had visited New York. He
tore out the picture. He couldn't have
told why. Norma Farrington. He smiled.
An idea had come to him, a charming
idea such as often tickles the imagination
of young men when they see the portrait of
a beautiful woman. The more he mulled
over the idea the more fascinating it became.
Certainly she would not have him arrested
for wanting to meet her. He folded the
picture and put it away. Supposing he
really started out upon such an adventure
108
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
in earnest, not in imagination? Danger?
Scarcely, with the little time he had at his
disposal. Soon he would be in the waters
that were full of slinking death. And it
was this fact that let down the bars to the
spirit of recklessness. A few hours of sport
before the death grapple. Why not? Why
not? Why not? pulsed his father's blood.
No. He was John Mathison's master. Wild
blood he might have in his veins, but it was
also the blood of unbroken promises.
What had started this rather sinister
idea in his mind, or rather reawakened it?
The photograph of the actress? No. The
gray lady. The charm of her companion-
ship, the hint of the things he had missed.
Queer things, human beings!
No, he would not bother Norma Farring-
ton. He would build one of his exciting
romances around her and let it go at that.
But he would hunt up Mrs. Chester before
his leave was over, have tea with her, pre-
sent her with Malachi, and tell her the story
in detail.
Another human inconsistency. Hallowell
had become strangely remote. As though
the thing had happened months instead of
days ago. And yet every move he made
109
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
was in the service of Bob to bring his great
dream to fulfilment and confusion to his
enemies.
He heard some one knocking on the door.
He rose quickly and stood listening. Two
taps, a pause, followed by two more taps.
Mathison released the lock, and with his
foot ready and his shoulders hunched he
drew back the door about an inch. He
saw the shining black face of the porter.
"What is it?"
"Bad news, suh."
" Come along inside." The porter slipped
through the opening, and he winced as he
heard the door close and the lock snap.
"What's the trouble?"
"Dey's a big freight wreck beyon' de
nex' town, an' we'se t' be stalled ontil
mo'nin', suh."
"What!" explosively.
"Yes, suh. Freight ovah de passenjah
rails. An' den dey's dat new rule coal
an' freight fust. We can't get by dat
wreck onless dey side-tracks de freight; an'
de freight goes whoozin' by while we twiddle
thumbs. It's dat Gahfield awdah; an' dey
ain't no use buckin' ag'in' it, wah-times.
Dey takes the diner off, too. No fish. So
no
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
yo' will haff t' eat in de station aw go t'
one o' de hotels in town."
"How big a town is this?"
"Middlin'; but dey's got a fine hotel
called de Watkins, jus' a little ways f'm
de station. Bath in all de rooms, suh."
"Bath hi all the rooms," repeated Mathi-
son, meditatively.
"I can bring yo' sumpin' in," suggested
the porter, but without much enthusiasm.
"Dey won't be no trimmin's like yo'd get
at de hotel."
"How long will we be stalled?"
"Dey calc'lates ontil nine in de mo'nin',
suh."
"What are the other passengers going to
do?"
"Dey's all climbin' out fo' dinnuh."
Mathison pulled at his lip. His decision
came in a flash, one of that caliber which
only true adventurers dare make. The
blind Madonna of the Pagan, Chance!
With a vave of the hand, to consign the
burden to her! Perhaps it was the green
plush, the red paint on the four steel walls;
anyhow, he decided to spend the night at
the hotel. He would immediately deposit
the manila envelope and the little red book
111
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
HallowelFs in the hotel safe and advise
New York by wire his positive whereabouts.
If anything happened to him, they would
know where to find his personal effects.
There would be no Secret Service opera-
tives at his beck and call here; he would be
on his own.
This decision reacted upon him mentally
and physically like champagne. All his
craving for sleep, all his depression, went by
the board magically. He began to thrill
and bubble with gaiety. And there would
be Malachi. In the quiet of the hotel
room he might be inveigled into talking.
"All right, George; I'll climb out, too.
The Lord help me, but I can't stand this
damned green plush any longer! I'll spend
the night at your Watkins. Now listen.
When the train stops wait half an hour be-
fore you come for my kit-bags. Engage
a taxi. If you can get me into that taxi
without being observed, there'll be a five-
spot for you. You didn't tell the waiter
this morning about knocking. When I
finally got the meal it was cold. "
"I done fo'got. I sure is busy dis trip."
"Will you be aboard aU night?"
"Yes, suh. I ain't allowed to leave in a
112
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
case like dis. Dey won't nobody see yo'
in all dis rampagin' snow. All right;
thutty minutes aftuh de train stops."
The porter backed out. Almost instantly
he heard the lock snap into the socket. He
scratched his woolly poll ruminatingly.
"Well, suttinly dis niggah nevah struck
a bunch like dis befo'. Two women hidin'
behin' veils w'en I makes up de beds like
dey jes' got ovah smallpox. An' dis chap
makin' me signal on de do', an' totin'
a parrot! Well, politeness is mah middle
name. I'se goin' t' do jes' es dey tells me.
W'en I gits t' New York I'll buy dat Ford
Lizzie."
In the fourth compartment sat three
men, playing cutthroat auction. One of
them had just bid "two without" when
the porter knocked.
"Come in !" shouted the blond man. "Ah,
George, what's the news?"
The porter became a very mysterious in-
dividual. He shut the door softly and
leaned toward the blond man's ear.
"He's goin' int' town, suh."
"Going to take his things with him?"
"Yes, suh. I'm t' call fo' him thutty
minutes aftuh de train stops. Dey's sum-
113
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
pin' I fo'got t' tell yo', suh. It's de way I
has t' knock on his do' befo' I can git in.
I hits two times, den I waits a moment, den
I hits two times mo'."
One of the men started to say something
angrily, but the blond man silenced him
with a gesture.
"You should have told me that before,
George," reproachfully.
"I know, suh; but I done fo'got."
"Remember my instructions. A mis-
step on your part and you land in jail."
"Yes, suh." For George knew these men
to be Secret Service men. He had seen the
magic shields. "Dey sure fools yo' some-
times, don't dey? He don't look it."
"That's why I'm taking all these pre-
cautions. I can't arrest him until we cross
the New York state line. The less they
look like it the more dangerous they are.
Always remember that, George. He hasn't
ordered anything to drink, has he?"
"No, suh; nuthin' but watah an' coffee."
"He hasn't sent or received any tele-
grams?"
"No, suh."
"What made him decide to risk leaving
the car?"
114
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
George thought for a moment. "I
reckons it was de green plush. He said he
couldn't stand it any longer."
The blond man laughed. "Hush! Well,
I'd risk it myself if I were in his boots.
That's all, George."
The porter bobbed and went away. The
moment the door closed the blond man
got up.
"Out in the open at last! Ah 1 things
come to him who waits. Sleep. That's
what he is after. Since the fumes I'll wager
he has kept an eye open every night; and
it's beginning to tell on him. Everything
is turning out beautifully: the wreck, the
storm, his restlessness."
"If that black fool had only told us about
that knocking!"
"Never mind the spilled milk. We all
know what to do; let us see that we do it.
I'll notify the local police at once. This
may be the end of the chase. This porter
is telling us the truth. I believe now that
the other porter told the truth. Mathison
isn't relying upon anybody to help him out.
He hasn't sent any telegrams or received
any. At least, not from his own car. It
may be ... No; he never leaves the com-
115
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
partment. Yet there's those three taxis.
How could these turn up if he hadn't tele-
graphed? Never mind. Here is where we
shall trip him up. I'll go and tell Berta."
Shortly after he rapped on the door of
the second compartment. The door was
opened cautiously.
"Oh!" said the woman with the mole.
The blond man stepped inside. "Good
news! He's going into this town for the
night. There's a wreck ahead, and we'll be
stalled all night. He's going to risk it in
the open at last. Sleep. He's going to
pieces for the want of it. Out in the open !"
"It is time. I am dead. I'll never get
the cramp out of my poor body. Nearly
three thousand miles cooped up like this!
You were free. I had to stay packed away
in this suffocating box." She stooped and
peered out of the window. The suburb
lights were flashing by. ' ' A horrible night !' '
"On the contrary, I should call it beauti-
ful. We are and have been perfectly pre-
pared against a move like this. He carries
two things I must have."
"I shall be glad when it's over."
"To-night. It will depend upon you.
Be careful. He is very strong and clever.
116
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
I thought the chase would be over in Chi-
cago last night. He tricked me neatly. But
green plush !" _ The blond man laughed
quietly.
"What are you laughing at?"
"He's going into this town, he's going to
trust to his luck, because he can't stand the
sight of green plush any longer. It's acting
upon him psychologically, like red upon the
righting toro. On the other hand, he will
not act impulsively again."
"He hasn't gone yet."
"A fig for that! He'll go with the police,
then. His way or mine; he'll go into town
to-night. Dress warmly but elegantly . Look
the part."
Mathison put on a fresh collar and
brushed himself carefully. He packed his
kit-bags and patted them affectionately,
as a hunter might have patted his faithful
hounds. A real dinner, lights, cheerful-
ness, pretty women; a room big enough to
turn around in, a bed big enough to turn
over in, and a bathroom with a tub of hot
water; a theater, perhaps, drama, opera,
burlesque, whatever the town had to offer.
He would play the game to the hilt. His
danger would be maximum, whether he
117
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
stayed in the hotel or walked abroad. So
he might as well get all the fun out of it
possible.
He lifted the cotton-flannel bag. " Mal-
achi, we'll both have a bath to-night. Only,
we're probably doing a fool thing. There
won't be any one to watch over us; we'll
have to go it on our own. But I'm done.
I've got to get outside. You poor little
beggar! Are you ever going to talk again?
Malachi!"
A pair of yellow eyes flashed belligerently,
but immediately the lids dropped.
Perhaps if the bird had the run of a room
where everything was silent and motionless,
he might find his tongue. For days he had
known nothing but the strange swing
of the sea and the rattle of steel. A quiet
room in which he could wander about and
claw up the curtains.
CHAPTER VIII
AT precisely six -thirty the porter re-
turned. He announced his arrival in
the peculiar manner previously described.
"De taxi is waitin' fo' yo', suh," he
whispered.
"Good for you, George. Some snow-
storm !"
"It sure is. Yo' can't see yo' hand befo'
yo' face. I tol' de cabby t' take yo' straight
t' de Watkins. On'y a sho't ways. De
Watkins is fash'nable an' has a cobbyray
leastwise dey did befo' we got int' dis wah.
Anyhow, dey'll give yo' all de comfo'ts o'
home, an' I reckon dey's whut's achin'
yo'."
"The nail on the head, George. But I
mustn't miss this train. Remember that."
"I'll telephone, suh, ef dey makes up any
time."
Passenger and porter hurried from the
car to the station platform, crossed two
119
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
tracks, passed through the waiting-room,
thence to the street, which you could not
see across for the curtain of driving snow.
There was a line of taxis at the curb. It
appeared that everybody had deserted the
train.
Mathison knew that he had committed a
blunder. There was even now a chance to
run back; but stubbornly he faced the di-
rection toward which he had set his foot.
A blunder which, before the night was
over, might become a catastrophe. Well,
one thing was certain: they should never
lay hands upon that manila envelope. He
would deposit it in the hotel safe. Once
that was done, they could come at him
from all directions, if they cared to. He
knew exactly every move he was going to
make.
"Boss, I wish I was whah dese bags come
f'm. Pineapples an' melons; oh, boy! Say,
I ain't nachelly inquis'tive, but what's in
dat cage?"
"A ghost, George, by the name of
Palceornis torquatus"
"I pass!"
Mathison laughed. "It's a parrakeet, a
hop-o'-my-thumb of a bird."
120
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Talk?"
" Almost as much as you do, George."
The porter grinned and helped stow the
luggage inside the cab. Mathison climbed
in and slammed the door. The porter
watched the taxicab until the gray, swirling
pall swallowed it up. He pocketed the bill.
"Dey ain't no reason why, but I sure
hates t' take dat young man's money," he
mused, remorsefully. "De undah dawg;
I s'pose dat's it. W'en dey don't look like
it dey is. What's he done, I wonduh? A
parrot! Fust time I ev' seen a white man
tote a parrot. An' he don't look like a
henpeck, neither."
He turned and jogged back to the train.
The taxicabs began to straggle along.
The streets were full of ruts and drifts,
and the vehicles looked like giant beetles
scurrying.
Gloomy town, thought Mathison, as he
peered first from one window then from the
other. Not a cheery, winking electric sign
anywhere. Then he recalled the reason,
as explained by the porter. A coal famine
had forced a temporary abandonment of
this wonder of American cities.
It was stinging cold, somewhere around
9 121
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
zero. He threw the lap-robe over the cage.
Malachi wasn't used to the cold. The
shop-windows gleamed like beaten gold, so
thick were they with frost. The cab lurched,
staggered, and skidded.
" Lord ! but the smell of clean snow !" He
dipped his chin into his collar. He had
been away from this kind of weather so
long that it bit in.
Cabs in front and cabs behind. Were
they following him? Likely enough. They
would be fools if they didn't. A hot bath
and a bed for himself and a room to rove
about in for Malachi. The thing was
written, anyhow; and deep down in his soul
he knew that he was going to pull through.
Fire, water, and poison gas.
In about ten minutes the cab came to a
halt. The door was opened and a bellboy
grinned hopefully and hospitably. Mathi-
son stepped down from the cab, gave a
dollar to the driver, and reached for Malachi
and one of the kit-bags, leaving the other
for the boy. He sprang up the hotel steps,
keenly exhilarated. He felt alive for the
first time in days. He swept on to the
desk, planted the kit-bag strategically and
ordered a room with a bath. But as the
122
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
clerk offered the pen Mathison frowned.
He hadn't planned against the contingency
of signing his name to hotel registers. His
slight hesitancy was not noticed by the
clerk. Mathison was not without a fund
of dry humoir, and a flash of it swept over
him at this moment.
He wrote " Richard Whittington, Lon-
don." He chuckled inwardly. The name
had popped into his head with one of those
freakish rallies of memory; but presently
he was going to regret it.
"Room with bath; number three hundred
and twenty. Here, boy! How long do you
expect to be with us, sir?" asked the clerk,
perfunctorily.
"Until morning. Train stalled on ac-
count of wreck. You have a good safe?"
"Strong as a bank's."
"Very good. I'll be down shortly with
some valuables."
"Bird?"
"A parrakeet."
"That'll be all right. We bar dogs and
cats."
The door of the elevator had scarcely
closed behind Mathison when a man walked
leisurely over to the desk and inspected the
123
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
freshly written signature. He seemed
startled for a moment; then he laughed.
"A room, sir?"
"No. I was looking to see if a friend
of mine had arrived. He hasn't."
The stranger walked away; he strolled
into the bar, looked into the restaurant,
mounted the first flight of stairs and wan-
dered into the parlor, which was empty and
chilly. Next he hailed an elevator and
asked to be let out on the third floor. Here
he walked to the end of the corridor and
returned, took the next car down, and went
directly into the street. At the north side
of the hotel was an alley. The man stared
speculatively into this, jumped into a wait-
ing taxicab and made off.
Half an hour later a woman entered the
hotel parlor, selected a chair by the corridor
wall, and sat down. You might have gone
into the parlor and departed without no-
ticing her.
Meanwhile Mathison set the cage by the
radiator, went into the bathroom, came back
and felt of the bed, and smiled at the bellboy.
"This will do nicely. How big a town
is this?"
"About seventy thousand, sir."
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"What's the name of it?"
The boy grinned. Here was one of those
"fresh guys" who were always springing
wheezes like this because they thought the
"hops" expected it.
"Petrograd."
Mathison caught the point immediately.
"Boy, on my word, I haven't the least idea
what the name of this town is. I'm off
the stalled flyer, and I forgot to ask the
porter. I wanted a bed instead of a bunk.
Now shoot."
The boy named the town.
"What have you got in the line of
theaters?"
"This is Tuesday," answered the boy.
"I know that. Is there a comic opera or
a good burlesque?"
"Are you guying me? Where'd juh
come from?"
"The other side of the world."
"I guess that's right. Why, this is show-
less Tuesday, all east of the Mississippi.
Even little Mary Pickford ain't working
to-day. New York, Boston it's all the
same. Nothing doing. The new law; all
the theaters, movies, billiard-parlors, and
bowling-alleys dark."
1525
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Well, I'll be haDged!"
"It's the war, sir," said the boy, soberly.
"I'm in the next draft. I don't want to
kill anybody; but if I've got to do it I'm
going to learn how."
Mathison held out his hand. "That's
the kind of talk. It's bad, bloody work,
but it's got to be done. Here's a telegram
I want sent. Don't bother bringing back
the change. But don't fail to have this
wire sent."
"I won't fail, sir."
"Now, I want you to give this order to
the waiter."
After a word or two the boy interrupted
Mathison. "No meat. Fish, lobster, oys-
ters, chicken."
"All right; make it chicken, then. And
tell him to bring a banana and some al-
monds. And mind this particularly. Tell
the waiter to knock once loudly. Make no
mistake about that."
"Yes, sir"j but the boy's eyes began to
widen perceptibly. Here was a queer bird.
After the boy had departed Mathison
double-locked the door. Then he liberated
Malachi. The bird came out and stood
before the door of his cage indecisively.
128
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Then he reached down and whetted his beak
on the carpet.
"Chup!" he muttered.
" You little son-of-a-gun !" cried Mathison,
delighted. It was the first time Malachi
had spoken since leaving Manila. Mathison
stooped and extended his index finger. By
aid of claw and beak, the bird mounted the
living perch and slowly worked his way up
the arm. "The little son-of-a-gun, he's
alive again! Malachi, are you cold?"
Malachi grumbled in his own tongue.
Mathison approached a curtain, and the
bird at once transferred himself to that,
clawing his way up to the pole, where he
began to preen himself. His master watched
him for a few minutes contentedly. Then
he looked out of the window. He saw the
dim outlines of a fire-escape. He could
also see a cross-section of the street beyond
the alley: clouds of snow, spouts, whirl-
winds.
He turned from the window swiftly and
tiptoed to the door. Some one had turned
the knob cautiously. Mathison waited pa-
tiently, but the knob did not turn again.
Door-knobs they had a mysterious way of
turning in the night.
127
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
There would be no going out this night;
so he might as well make himself comfort-
able. He turned to the kit-bags. He
opened them both, took a pair of slippers
from the top of one and a dressing-gown and
toilet articles from the top of the other.
The general contents of both bags were
as neatly and as compactly arranged as a
drummer's case; but always on top there
would be pick-ups. By the time he had
bathed, changed, put on the slippers and
gown a heavenly blue silk-brocade such
as aristocratic Chinese wear the waiter
arrived with the dinner. He announced
his arrival by a single knock.
The door was opened in a singular fashion.
Mathison kept totally behind it. An Orien-
tal trick; it gave one the opportunity to
strike first, if it were necessary to strike;
moreover, it prevented any one in the hall or
corridor observing the occupant of the room.
The moment the waiter stepped inside the
door was closed and double-locked again.
"I shall require no service, waiter. Here's
a bill; keep the change for your tip."
''Thank you, sir."
The lock and the latch were released
simultaneously. So adroitly was this ac-
128
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
complished that the waiter never suspected
that he had been locked in or that he was
immediately going to be locked out.
Mathison crossed over to the table, peeled
a banana, lopped off a bit, and jabbed the
fork into it. This he took to the parrakeet.
Malachi sidled along the pole solemnly and
reached down a coral-red claw.
On going back to the table Mathison felt
top-hole in spirit. The telegram was off.
If anything happened they would know
where to find him. After he had finished
his dinner he would find a hiding-place for
that manila envelope.
Suddenly he became seized by an ironic
whimsy, an impulse which in normal times
he would have analyzed as idiotic. Never-
theless, he proceeded to materialize it. He
searched in his coat-pocket for the picture
of the actress, sliced off the non-essentials,
and propped it against the water carafe.
With his hand on his heart he bowed.
" Paper lady, I am at once gratified and
deeply chagrined to offer you a repast so
poor. I had planned a club steak* I've
been planning it for six long years, and
patriotism compels me to eat chicken
which I abominate! You are disappointed?
129
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
I'm sorry. You won't look at me? Very
well. That's not your fault; it's the fault of
the fool photographer, the way he posed
you. Crazy? Well, perhaps. But, Lord's
truth, I wish I did know somebody like you.
I'm the lonesomest duffer in all this God-
forsaken world!"
So, while he munched his chicken and
Malachi his banana, the clerk at the desk
was having his worries.
"A queer bunch got off that stalled train,"
he said to the manager.
"What's the trouble?"
" First a tanned chap with two bags and
a parrot signs his name and beats it for
the elevator as if he were afraid the room
would vanish before he got to it. Another
man comes up and looks the book over.
He laughs. Then he walks off. Right
away comes a veiled woman who does the
same thing. Only she signs. A coat that
would pay next year's taxes, but no hat.
She wants room two hundred and twenty. I
ask where her luggage is, and she says she
left it on the train. But she hands me a
twenty. I let her have the key. Then up
comes Sanford, of The Courier. When he
pipes those two names he yells."
130
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"What's the matter with them?" asked
the manager. He was not particularly
interested.
"Why, look at this. Richard Whitting-
ton, London. Sanford says there was only
one man ever had that name, and he was
Lord Mayor of London five hundred years
ago."
"Oh, pshaw!"
"Wait a minute. Here's the name the
woman wrote. Manon Roland. Sanford
says her head was cut off in the French
Revolution in 1793. One alone, all right;
but two!"
"So long as they pay the bill and behave
themselves there's nothing for us to do.
Perhaps they are celebrities and don't want
to be bothered by reporters."
"A new brand, then. I never saw this
kind before. Anyhow, I thought I'd put
you wise."
From afar Mathison heard the shrill, pro-
longed blast of a railway whistle. Then
a rush of cold air struck him. The paper
lady rose suddenly and began a series of
violent spiral whirls toward the door.
Mathison sprang to his feet, turning, his
131
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
automatic ready. He remembered now
that he had forgotten to examine the win-
dow lock.
Through this window came a woman.
She stumbled and fell to her knees, but she
got up instantly. She wore no hat. Her
hair, like Roman gold, sparkled with melt-
ing snow-flakes. Under this hair was a
face which had the exquisite pallor of
Carrara marble. Her eyes were as purple
as Manila Bay after the sunset gun. From
her shoulders hung a sable coat worth a
king's ransom.
Mathison's heart gave a great bound;
then his brain cleared and his thoughts be-
came cold and precise. He knew who she
was. Beautiful beyond anything his fertile
imagination had conceived of her: warm
and fragrant as a Persian rose. Small won-
der that poor old Bob Hallowell had gone
to smash over her. But what Hid The
Yellow Typhoon want of John Mathison?
"You are John Mathison?" she asked,
her voice scarcely audible. ''Richard
Whittington?"
"Yes." His eyes still marveling over
the beauty of her. It was unbelievable.
A wave of poignant regret went over him.
132
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The tender loveliness of a Bouguereau
housing the soul of a Salome!
"Then take heed. You are in grave
danger. You carry something certain men
want desperately Don't go into the hall;
don't leave your room under any circum-
stances to-night. The hall is watched. I
dared not come to your door. They must
never know that I have aided you. I had
to climb the fire-escape. I dared not trust
the telephone. Hide whatever you have
and hide it well."
It is possible that Mathison presented
a unique picture to the woman. The blue
robe fluttered, bulged, and collapsed in the
wind. It fell to his feet, shimmering. But
for the color of it had it been yellow
Mathison might have posed as a priest of
Buddha. His handsome, bronzed face, the
cold impassivity of his eyes and mouth,
might have passed inspection on the plat-
form of the Shwe Dagon pagoda in Ran-
goon if one overlooked the healthy thatch
of hair on his head.
She broke the tableau by taking from the
pocket of her gray coat a gray veil which
she wound about her head, turban-wise,
dropping the edge just above her lips.
133
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"One word more. I am a creature of
impulse. I may regret this whim shortly.
I may even return. I don't know. But if
I do, watch out! . . . Beware of me!"
She backed to the window, stepped
through to the fire-escape and vanished into
the night.
FOR a space Mathison did not stir. There
was something hypnotic in this singu-
lar visitation, but it was physical rather than
mental. He stared at the blank square of
the window as Medusa's victims must have
stared at her stonily. Morgan had de-
scribed the woman minutely, and out of
these substances and delineations Mathison
had created a blonde Judith, something at
once beautiful and terrifying. And yet he
recognized the woman almost immediately.
The mind often acts inconsequently in
crises. At the back of his brain something
was clamoring for recognition. He was
conscious of the call, but there seemed to
be a blank wall in between. It was conceiv-
able that the sheer loveliness of the woman
dazed him. On his guard, yes, alert and
watchful, but otherwise nonplussed. His
confusion was doubtless due to the fact
that he could not out the two salients to-
135
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
gether. It was utterly illogical that any
woman so tenderly beautiful should be
called The Yellow Typhoon.
He recalled Morgan's description. "A
passionless, merciless leopardess. She
would have curled Saint Anthony's beard
and taken Michael's flaming sword away
from him. A destroyer. Don't get the
impression that she is what we call on the
loose. That's the most singular part of it.
Her reputation isn't along that line. Breaks
men for the pure deviltry of it; honorable
men, men too proud to fight back. Under-
stand? Always the poor devil who has
something or everything to lose. A biga-
mist, because that seemed to be the most
exciting game she could apply her arts to.
And always just beyond the reach of the
law. I don't suppose there's a court in the
world that could convict her of bigamy.
So, keep your eyes open and your guard up.
Remember, I wanted to ransack the ship."
And what kind of a game was she about
to spring? She had warned him. But she
had added that she might return } and in
that event, let him beware. He thought
keenly for a moment, and presently he saw
a way out of the labyrinth. Very clever!
136
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
His enemies were in the adjoining rooms,
watching him from some peephole or other.
A trick to make him take the manila en-
velope out of his kit-bag and hide it anew
where they could find it when they wanted it.
He had made his first mistake. He should
have deposited the envelope in the safe be-
fore coming up. The hesitance over inscrib-
ing his name any name on the register
had befogged him temporarily. His whole
carefully built campaign depended upon
getting that manila envelope to New York.
What followed was a revelation in clear
thinking, acted upon swiftly.
He pulled down the window, locked it,
and drew the shade. He got into his clothes
again, dropped the automatic into the right
pocket of his coat, all the while taking in-
ventory of his surroundings in panoramic
glances. Not a step wasted, not a thought
that needed readjusting. Under the tele-
phone was a waste-basket. In this there
was a discarded newspaper. He crossed
the room and turned off the lights. What
he did now was done in the dark. From
one of the kit-bags he procured the manila
envelope and the little red book, which he
strapped together with a rubber band. He
10 137
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
tiptoed over to the waste-basket and slipped
his precious packet into the folds of the
newspaper, which he returned to the basket.
He turned on the lights and took down the
telephone.
"Hello!" he caUed, softly. "This is
room three hundred and twenty. Will you
kindly ascertain for me if rooms three eigh-
teen and three twenty-two are occupied by
passengers from the stalled flier from Chi-
cago? . . . Yes, I'll hold the wire." Two
minutes passed. "They are not? Thank
you. No; nothing of importance. Didn't
know but they might be friends from the
train." So there was nothing to fear from
the adjoining rooms. That was a weight
off his mind.
But it was also a new angle to the puzzle.
Had the woman really tried to do him a
service? Was it inspired by some vague
regret for Hallowell? Out of one laby-
rinth, but into another. He ran to the
windows and threw up the shades. The
fire-escape was empty. He went back to
the telephone. It was barely possible that
she had come up from the room below.
That would be 220.
"Is the lady still in room two twenty? . . .
138
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Oh, never mind the name. Is she still
there? . . . She isn't? Gave up the key a
moment ago? . . . No, there isn't any trouble.
She came from the stalled train . . . She said
she would not return? Thanks."
A blind alley. He couldn't solve the
riddle at all. And because he couldn't
solve it he sensed danger, a danger which
ran around him in a circle.
He glanced up at the bird on the curtain-
pole. Malachi had finished his dinner and
was polishing his beak.
"Malachi, they've got me guessing!"
"Chup!" said the little green bird, spread-
ing out his clipped wing. It was warm
and cozy up there near the ceiling. He
loved window-curtain poles. "Mat, you
lubber, where's my tobacco?"
That phrase! It seemed to Mathison
that a hand had reached out and caught
him by the throat. Bob ! The dear, absent-
minded Hallowell! How often had he
teased him by putting his tobacco-canister
on the other end of the table! Bob, blind
if you stirred anything on his end of the
table from its accustomed place, would
start hunting about the room, swearing
good-naturedly.
139
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison began to pace the room. The
infernal beauty of her! Negative for good
and positive for evil; somehow it hurt him.
He felt outraged that God should give all
these lovely attributes to a daughter of
Beelzebub.
Down-stairs, the clerk went into the man-
ager's office.
"I tell you something queer is going on
in this hotel."
"What now?"
"The Lord Mayor of London makes
waiters signal on his door before he'll let
them in. Then he begins asking questions
about the people on either side of him. To
cap the climax, he asked about the woman
who had her head cut off in 1793."
"What? Oh yes, I see; those names on
the register. Well?"
" Something fishy . The woman just sur-
rendered her key and waltzed out."
"Gone?"
"With last year's cabbages."
"Maybe it's an elopement," suggested
the manager, hopefully. Elopements were
first-rate advertisements.
"Nix on the elopement. The real article
gets married before they come to a hotel
140
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
like the Watkins. She went up to the room
I gave her and came down again. No com-
plaints. Just surrendered the key and
faded."
" Didn't ask any questions about the
man?"
" Nope. There's where the mystery comes
in. Mind, we'll have a robbery or a murder
on our hands before morning."
"Piffle! If the woman is gone for good
we can't risk meddling with this Lord
Mayor chap. I'm not courting suits for
damages these days; not me. You've been
going to the movies too much. Anyhow,
she paid five for the room. It's none of our
business if she doesn't sleep in it."
"All right. Only, don't jump on me if
anything happens."
"Tell your troubles to the house detec-
tive. That's what he's here for."
The clerk acted on this advice at once.
"Michaels," he said, "you take this key
and look around room two twenty. See if
the woman took or left anything. There's
a queer game going on here to-night."
The house detective returned shortly.
He doubted if any one had been in room
220 at aU.
141
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
" Better stick around, anyhow."
"All right."
At the police-station the night captain
rocked in his swivel-chair and chewed his
cigar. There had recurred to his mind an
old phrase, which applied to the crook as
well as to the honest man, "He travels
fastest who travels alone." Well, so long
as it was fish to his net, he had no right to
complain. On his desk lay a stack of those
sinister handbills which the police send
hither and thither across the continent
under the caption "Wanted." From time
to time he referred to a letter which he had
just received by messenger. A fall-down
on the divvy, and the pal blows the game.
But a thousand dollars, a real bank-roll, was
worth trying for these hard times. All he
had to do was to call up the Watkins. If
there was anything to the information, the
hotel clerk would be able to tell. He drew
the telephone toward him.
"This the Watkins? . . . Police-station
talking. Man by the name of Richard
Whittington registered? . . . He is? Good!
Listen to me. Describe him." The cap-
tain smoothed out a handbill and kept his
eye on it obliquely. "All right. Tall,
142
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
very dark, good-looking, blue eyes, smooth,
no beard. Yes, that sounds like him . . .
'Black' Ellison, wanted in San Francisco
for diamond robbery and assault. . . . There
was a woman? Gone? That's tough. She
may have taken the swag. Well, it can't
be helped. Get the man down-stairs to the
private office. I'll send Murphy over in
fifteen minutes. Better call in a patrolman.
This man Ellison is a strong-arm, for all
his good looks."
Up in room 320 Mathison found it impos-
sible to keep that lovely face out of his
thoughts. Something was wrong with the
world. If ever he had looked into a counte-
nance upon which was written honesty . . .
"The voice!" he cried, stopping suddenly.
"The voice! That's the thing that's been
hammering in the back of my head. I've
heard that voice before. Where? How?"
He rumpled his hair. "Where have I heard
her voice?"
He had heard her laugh that night when
she had come on deck in the Chinese cos-
tume. But the speaking voice! Where
had he heard that?
Malachi, sensing his master's agitation,
sidled back and forth along the curtain-
143
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
pole, grumbling as his feet came into con-
tact with the cold brass rings.
By and by Mathison saw the paper lady
on the floor; saw it with eyes busy with
introspection. He stooped; the act was
purely mechanical. He went on with his
pacing. He folded and refolded the slip
of paper many times and at length stowed
it away in a pocket, without having glanced
at it once, without recalling his desire to
meet her, if she happened to be in New
York when he arrived there.
He heard a sound. It came from the
window. He wheeled quickly, his hand
going into his pocket as he turned. He had
almost forgotten!
Tap-tap-tap!
Dimly he saw a woman's face against
the pane. She had comeback! The monu-
mental nerve of her! On the way to the
window he formed his plan of action. He
would give her all the rope she wanted; he
would act as if he had never seen her be-
fore, play her as a fisherman plays a trout.
She had warned him, and he would not ig-
nore her warning. He ran to the window,
unlocked it, and threw it up.
The woman stumbled into the room, the
144
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
expression on her face one of great terror.
Hair like spun molasses, sparkling with
melting snowflakes, skin like Carrara mar-
ble, with an odd little mole at the corner of
her mouth, and eyes as purple as Manila
Bay at sunset. From her shoulders hung
a sable coat worth a king's ransom. Mathi-
son raised her to her feet. "What is it?
What's the trouble?" he asked, pulling
forward a chair. Terrified. Had they dis-
covered what she had done and had she
flown to him for protection? "Beware of
me!" she had said.
She sank into the chair and covered her
face with her ungloved hands, rocking her
body and moaning slightly.
"What's the trouble?" It took some
effort to keep the ironical out of his voice.
What a queer little mole! he thought. He
hadn't noticed it before.
She let her hands fall. "I'm in the most
horribly embarrassing situation," she pant-
ed. She clasped her hands on her knees and
the fingers began to snarl and twist, as they
will when a body is under great mental
stress. "You won't mind if I stay here
a few minutes?"
"Not in the least, provided you give me
145
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
an idea what's happened to drive you into
this room." Mathison put both hands
into the side-pockets of his coat.
" Couldn't it be possible to stay without
explaining?" she pleaded.
Not a sign that she had been in this room
less than half an hour gone. What was
her game? Mathison, from the ironical
spirit, passed into one of bewilderment.
Her voice wasn't quite the same, either; it
was higher, thinner. He was giving her rope,
but so far she wasn't making any especial
effort to gather it in. Very well ; he would
continue to play up to her lead and see where
it led. But stretch his imagination to its
fullest, he could not figure out what her
game was.
He answered her query. " Supposing
you were found here? I don't object, mind
you; only, I'd like to know how to act^should
occasion arise."
"I ... I don't know how to begin! It
will sound so silly and futile!" she faltered.
Her gaze roved rather wildly about. "My
husband ... he has the most violent temper
and is most insanely jealous. Somehow he
learned I was here in the restaurant. I
saw him as he entered the main entrance.
146
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
I tried to slip out at the side . . . but I was
not quick enough. By this time he will
have had the whole hotel by the ears. Oh,
it is degrading shameful!" The woman
turned her head against her shoulder and
closed her eyes. Mathison noted the plain
gold band among the gems on her fingers.
"I haven't done anything wrong. I like
amusement; I like clothes. ... I can't stand
it much longer! . . . He keeps me shut up
all the time. What's the good of clothes
if you can't wear them? I can't go any-
where, I can't do anything! I wish I were
dead!"
Maddening! He wanted to take hold of
her and shake her. But he said, soothing-
ly: "You don't wish that. You ought not
to have run away."
"I know, but I couldn't stand a scene
among all those people. I see now I've
only made it worse by running! ... I got
into the parlor somehow. Then I saw the
fire-escape. I stepped out and closed the
window, but I found I didn't dare drop
twelve feet or more to the sidewalk."
Mathison nodded. There was nothing
else to do.
"And I made the fire-escape just in
147
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
time. He came storming into the parlor,
followed by a clerk and a bellboy. The
shame of it! None of them thought to look
out. I'd have been frozen but for this
coat. Then it came to me I was so des-
perate! that I might find a window open
if I climbed up ... And I saw you. I
shaVt bother you more than ten minutes
. . . Just enough time to get my nerves
steadied. If he doesn't find me soon he'll
go home. I can stand a scene there. "
"Where's the other man? A fine chap, to
leave you in the lurch like this!" cried
Mathison, indignantly.
Her eyes opened; they expressed dismay.
"Oh, but I wasn't with any one!"
"Alone? Good Lord! why did you run
away?"
"He would have made a scene just the
same. He would always swear that there
was another man somewhere. I suppose
he'll kill me some day. I ought not to have
run; but I simply could not stand a scene
in the restaurant!" She hunted about for
a handkerchief, found one, and rubbed her
cold little nose with it. "It sounds so
silly, doesn't it? I don't know what to
do!"
148
,THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Stay as long as you like. Shall I send
for a cup of coffee? You must be frozen."
"No, no! You mustn't take the least
trouble. I'm sorry. I just opened the
window and stepped inside. I really had
only one idea to escape."
"Suppose you describe your husband.
I'll call up the office and see if he has gone."
"Good Heavens, no!" her terror return-
ing. "I am really lost if it should become
known that I had taken a risk such as this.
Besides, it might get you into trouble.
Please no ! Just a few minutes ten fifteen.
He'll go when he can't find me. I'll return
to the parlor by the way I came."
Why didn't she take out a revolver, cover
him in the conventional style, and open
the door for her friends in the hall? Or had
she noticed that his right hand was still in
the pocket of his coat? As a test he with-
drew the hand. She did not appear to
observe the movement. The word "baf-
fled " had always appealed to him as blood-
and-thunder stuff; but now he began to
understand that it was a serious and sub-
stantial condition of the mind.
"'You're welcome, any way you desire it.
I'll tell you what. I'll write a letter I had
149
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
in mind. It will serve to relieve you of
your embarrassment. It certainly will re-
lieve mine."
He opened one of the kit-bags and dug
out his letter-portfolio. He cleared a space
on the table and sat down, facing the young
woman, though apparently giving her no
more attention. He started the letter,
paused, tore up what he had written, and
tossed the bits to the floor. The next at-
tempt seemed to be successful, for he wrote
several pages, finally sealing it in an envelope.
Had the woman been able to read the con-
tents of this letter she would have been pro-
foundly astonished. It was a minute de-
scription of her, from the tortoise-shell comb
in her hah- to the white sandals on her feet.
He re-read the document ; and as he came
to the end of it he missed something, an
essential which impressed him previously.
Covertly he ran his glance over her again.
Something was gone, but he could not tell
what it was.
For all that she did not appear to be do-
ing so, he knew that not a single move he
made escaped her. Often he gazed at the
kit-bags, but never did he let his glance
stray anywhere near the waste-basket.
150
He wondered. Supposing the two visita-
tions, the second ignoring the first as though
it had never happened supposing they had
been launched for the express purpose of
baffling and bewildering him, eventually
causing him to lower his guard? Here at
last was a solution that had a grain of sense.
Mathison rose and filled his pipe.
"You won't mind if I smoke and jog
about a bit? I'm restless. I've had a long
attack of insomnia."
"Please pay no attention to me."
After a glance at his watch he fell to pa-
cing once more. But he paced in a peculiar
manner up and down the corridor wall.
That is to say, he had the window and
The Yellow Typhoon always under covert
observation.
As for the woman, she now relaxed. Her
lovely hands lay limply on her knees and
her eyes were closed or seemed to be. But
each time the elevator door slammed she
started nervously. Good acting, Mathison
admitted. The jealous husband ! He fought
the desire to walk over to her, to smother
her with the storm of words burning his
tongue. < There must be an overt act on
her part first. The infernal beauty of her!
151
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Mat, you lubber!"
Even Mathison received a shock. He
had forgotten Malachi. The woman sprang
to her feet and whirled about, expecting to
see some one behind her chair. She saw
nothing. Bewildered, her gaze came back
to Mathison, who pointed to the curtain-
pole.
"A little parrot!" She sank back into
the chair weakly. "I thought some one
was behind me!"
"I had forgotten him."
"Chupl Chota Malachi!"
"What does he say?"
"That's Hindustani. He's telling me to
be still and that he is a little bird."
"A Hindu parrot!" The woman gazed
at the bird, frankly interested. "What a
funny little bird! You have traveled far?"
"Half -way around the world. My train
was stalled to-night; so Malachi and I con-
cluded to spend the night in peace and
quiet. I rather wanted to hear him talk.
Boats and trains bother him, and he hasn't
spoken for days."
"A parrot!"
"A parrakeet," he corrected.
"I never knew that men carried them}
152
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
about. I thought it was always fussy old
maids."
"I'm a deep-sea sailor; and we sailors are
always lugging around pets for mascots. I
have lived in the Orient for six years." He
spoke with engaging frankness. Why not?
Was there anything concerning John Mathi-
son that she did not know?
"What do you caU him?"
"Malachi."
"What does that mean?"
"You have me there. It was the name of
an elephant in one of Kipling's yarns."
"I see. . . . What's that?" she broke off.
Mathison stood perfectly still, chin up,
eyes alert. The elevator door had slammed
with unusual violence. This sound was
followed by another hurrying feet. Then
came a blow of a fist on the panel of the
door.
"What's wanted?" demanded Mathison,
coldly
"Open the door!"
"Who is it and what is wanted?"
"Open, or we'll break in!"
The woman flew to the window. While
she was lifting it Mathison spoke to her.
"You are leaving?" broadly ironical.
11 153
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"My husband! . . . He will kiU me!"
" Which husband? Hallowell, Graham,
Morris?"
She sent him a glance that radiated ven-
om. It was almost as if she had suddenly
poisoned the air.
"The Yellow Typhoon! And you sup-
posed I would not recognize you, never
having seen you? I don't know what your
game was in warning me. No matter.
Morgan was right. He said you were a
beautiful mirage at the mouth of hell."
"Open the door!" came from the hall.
The woman stepped through the window,
sent it rattling to the sill; and that was the
last Mathison saw of her for many hours.
He walked to the door.
"I will open the door only upon one con-
dition that you inform me who it is and
what is wanted of me," he declared, still
in level tones.
"It's the house detective, and you're
wanted, me Lord Mayor of London!"
Mathison thought rapidly. He attacked
the affair from all angles. The house de-
tective!
Against the door came the thud of a
human body.
154
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Never mind breaking in the door,"
Mathison called. "Til open it."
He did so ; and four men came rushing in
the house detective, the manager, the in-
quisitive clerk, and a policeman.
* "The Lord Mayor of London, huh?"
bellowed the house detective. He carried
a revolver. "Put up your hands!" Mathi-
son obeyed promptly. Michaels ran his
hand over Mathison's pockets and gave a
cry of delight as he brought forth the heavy
Colt automatic. "A gat! I thought I'd
find one."
"Now then," said Mathison, still able
to hold his rage in check, "be so good as
to explain what the devil all this means?"
"We'll explain that in the office."
"We'll explain it here and now, or you'll
have to carry me. And in that event I can
promise you some excitement."
. "All right, me lud. Word comes from
the police headquarters to hold you and
hold you good. You're 'Black' Ellison,
and there's a thousand iron boys waiting
to be paid over on your delivery. We'll
carry you, if you say so."
So that was it! Mathison saw the whole
thing in a flash. Clever, clever beyond
155
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
anything he had imagined. To get him
out of the room in a perfectly logical way,
and then search it. He saw clearly that
his own mysterious actions would be held
against him. Caught! He couldn't help
admiring the method. The woman to keep
him interested and puzzled until they were
ready to fire the train.
"Is there any reason why we can't remain
here? You've got to prove that I'm the
man you want."
"Orders are to take you down to the pri-
vate office," said the policeman.
"No objection to my taking my things
along?"
"Your things, bo, will stay right where
they are until Murphy looks them over."
"How am I to know that no one will
enter this room while I'm down-stairs?"
"I can promise you that," said the man-
ager.
"Don't open the window. There's a
little bird up there on the curtain-pole;
and he might fly out or try to."
The visitors stared at Malachi inter-
estedly.
"He sha'n't be touched," declared the
manager, a fit of trembling seizing him. If
156
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
this turned out wrong and the victim came
back with a suit of damages! "It's no fault
of the hotel, sir. The order comes from the
police."
A few words, the exhibition of a paper or
two, and Mathison knew that the tide would
have turned immediately in his favor. But
this step he stubbornly refused to take.
The spirit of the gambler who scorns to
hedge. Upon leaving the security of the
train he had laid his offerings at the feet
of Chance. He would follow through. At
any rate, he determined not to disclose his
identity until he had to.
"Very weU; I'll go with you. But I'll
put the bird back in his cage if you don't
mind."
After a bit of coaxing Malachi came down
from his perch and Mathison bundled him
into the cage, which he set beside the radia-
tor. He then stepped into the corridor.
But he waited to see if the manager locked
the door. The manager did more than that.
He gave the key to Mathison, who marched
over to the elevator and pressed the button.
"A cool one," whispered the excited clerk.
"Didn't I tell you there was something off-
color?"
157
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The manager made a gesture. He wasn't
at all happy. People would have smiled
over an elopement; but the arrest of a
dangerous criminal always reacted against
the hotel. "You need not worry about
your belongings, sir," he said to Mathison.
"I'm not worrying. I'm going to leave
that for you to do."
"Bluff won't get you anywhere," growled
the house detective.
"It seems to have landed you a soft
job," countered Mathison, smiling as he
entered the elevator.
The clerk grinned. He and the house
detective were not exactly friendly.
Once in the manager's private office,
Mathison coolly appropriated the mana-
gerial chair. He kept his eye on the desk
clock and appeared oblivious to the low
murmurings behind his back. Five minutes
ten fifteen; he could feel the sweat rising
at the roots of his hair. Trapped ! They had
come at him from an original angle, and the
only counter for it was the disclosure of his
hand. No doubt the woman was already at
work. If they took him to the police-station
for the night; if the maid cleaned out the
room thoroughly in the morning!
158
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Got him, I see!" cried a cheery voice
from the doorway.
Mathison turned. He saw a small, brisk
Irishman, with a humorous mouth and a
pair of keenly intelligent eyes. He gave a
sigh of relief . Here was some one who fooked
as if he had the gift of reason. Pray God
that he had!
" Stand up!"
Mathison obeyed.
"Humph! Got anything to say?"
"No; except if you'll come to the room
with me I'll give you the stuff. I know
when I'm beaten."
"Who's this woman, Manon Roland?"
"Roland? Don't know anybody by that
name."
"The woman you were asking questions
about over the 'phone."
"So her name was Roland!"
"Ah 1 right; we'll come back to her again.
You used to travel alone. Why did you
hook up? Pals always blow."
"No man is perfect. Come to my room
and I'll turn the stuff over to you." Mathi-
son wondered what it was he had stolen.
"You'll never find it without my help. You
and I alone. Is it a bargain?"
159
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
'Til look you over first."
" Here's his gat, Murphy," said the house
detective.
Murphy thrust the automatic in his
pocket without comment. He ran his keen
glance over the prisoner. "Hold out your
hands, fingers spread; I want to look at
them. That's the way. Now turn your
face toward the light. Uh-huh. You ad-
mit you are 'Black' Ellison?"
"Yes." Anything to get back into the
room!
"All right. I'll go up with you for the
swag. But walk carefully. I'm excitable
by nature."
"Better take me along," urged the house
detective. He was anxious to be in the
newspapers on the morrow.
"You folks stay right where you are,
I'm running this. Step along, Mr. Ellison."
Murphy pushed Mathison toward the
door. The two crossed the lobby to the
elevator and were shot up to the third
floor.
"I'll be right at your elbow, so play it
straight. There's something about your
hurry that interests me, bo."
Mathison rushed to the door, unlocked
160
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
it and pushed it in violently. He sent a
lightning glance about the room and leaned
dizzily against the door-jamb.
"For the love o' Mike, they never told
me you'd put up a scrap like this!"
"I didn't put up any scrap," said Mathi-
son, dully.
" What's hit this room, then an earth-
quake?"
"A typhoon."
Malachi was all right, but the waste-
basket was empty.
CHAPTER X
MATHISON accepted the blow quietly.
He had the air of a spent athlete,
but that was all. He was a good loser.
To have rushed about, sending out alarms,
advising the Secret Service, all would have
been a waste of time. The damage was
complete, irremediable. Beaten that was
the word; he knew it.
Havoc! The bedding was strewn across
the floor, mattress and bolster; the pillows
had been shaken from their cases. All the
drawers in the bureau and commode had
been pulled out and their paper linings
tossed about. The two kit-bags had been
slashed completely across and their entire
contents scattered. Even the pockets of
the coats and trousers had been turned
inside out. Nothing had escaped.
Beaten! Until to-night he had had a
perfect defense. He tried to reach back to
analyze the cause which had emboldened
162
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
him to leave the security of the car, but
it wasn't reachable. The want of sleep?
The craving for exercise? Mere bewilder-
ment? He couldn't solve it; just one of
those moves which continue to render
human beings fallible. Why hadn't he left
the envelope in the safe? What idiocy had
inveigled him to carry it to his room?
A lone hand. He had tried the superhuman.
One trained mind against three or four
trained minds, and the odds had been too
great. He had left the realm of absolute
mathematics for the impositive, chance,
with this tragic result.
With infinite care he had contrived a
web; so had they. They had broken through
his, and now he found himself in theirs.
Flight. They would be gone like the winds.
They had done something more than beaten
him at the game; they had shattered his
self-confidence. Doubt ; all his future moves
would be under the shadow of doubt.
Should he do this, or should he do that, or
should he ask advice? The commander
of a destroyer should have supreme confi-
dence in himself; and at present it did not
look as if John Mathison would go abroad
with that. He might re-establish this qual-
163
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ity, but only by passing successfully through
some vital conflict.
Hallowell! Old Bob Hallowell! It was as
if he had broken faith with his friend.
"Mat! . . . Malachi!"
Thunderstruck, Mathison jumped to his
feet, while Murphy, the detective, looked
wildly about for the third man. Mathison
seized him by the arm.
"For God's sake, hush! Be still! It's that
little green bird."
"Mat! . . . Malachi!" It was the same
wailing accent of that dreadful night in
Manila. It was Hallowell himself speak-
ing!
Malachi, tremendously agitated, was
climbing up to his swing and down to his
perch. The incredible had happened. Sug-
gestion. Once before the bird had wit-
nessed a confusion in the making, something
like this.
"Mat! . . . Malachi!" he wailed.
Then came a jumble of phrases in poly-
glot, sailors' oaths, scraps of Hindustani
and Spanish. But after a few minutes he
began to mutter in parrakeetese. That
peculiar cell in Malachi 's head had closed
up again. Mathison urged and coaxed in
164
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
vain. Malachi rolled his yellow eyes and
continued to mutter. The irony of it lay
in the fact that his fear had subsided.
Wasn't this his master?
"Well, I be damn!" exploded Murphy.
"A talking parrot! Say" wrathfully
"why did you give me that bunk about
being Ellison?"
" Quickest way I could get back to this
room. All this was accomplished while they
were holding me down-stairs."
"A frame-up! I knew the moment you
held out your hands that you weren't
Ellison. The forefinger of his right hand is
missing. Look at those grips! Bo, what
did you have?"
"They got it."
"All right. Come on. I'll send out a
general alarm. We'll run a comb over the
town. Off your train, too, I'll gamble.
Get a move on!"
"Thanks, Mr. Murphy; but it wouldn't do
a bit of good. The damage is done. And ten
to one they've already boarded a freight."
"Going to let 'em put it over without a
kick?"
The thing they took was valuable only
so long as it remained in my possession.
165
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The Chinese have a saying you can't pour
water into a shattered jar."
"Are you trying to get my goat?"
"No. I'm stating bald facts."
"You're a queer kind of a guy. What
was it, a diamond toothpick?" Murphy
began to wander around the room. "A
frame-up, and a bully one. The only way
they could get you out of this room for a
while until your identity was established.
Why didn't you set up a holler?"
Mathison shook his head and sat down.
"Am I your prisoner?"
"Prisoner my eye! Only, I'm naturally
a curious cuss. Crook stuff?"
"Not in the sense you mean."
"Would it do any good to arrest them?"
"You couldn't arrest them."
"The heU I couldn't! What are they,
pro-Germans from that dear Chicago?"
"No."
"Well, I'U nose about."
"It won't do you any good."
"You don't know this Roland woman?"
"Never saw her before in my life."
'Then you saw her?" quickly.
"Go ahead and see what you can find,"
said Mathison, curtly.
166
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The infernal beauty of her! It would
haunt him as long as he lived. The strength
of those beautiful hands! This havoc all in-
side of an hour! Mathison lighted his pipe.
Murphy did not touch anything. He
seemed to be thinking rather than observ-
ing. By and by he went to the window,
opened it, and stepped outside. He was
absent perhaps ten minutes. He came
back, stamped the snow from his shoes, and
put away the pocket-lamp.
"Find anything?"
"You're not much on the gab-fesfc, are
you?" said Murphy, amiably. "Two
women! One of 'em wore arctics and the
other sandals; and the one with the sandals
wrecked the place ! Bo, was it love-letters
divorce stuff? Good-lookers?"
"There was only one woman," wearily.
"Two. My job is noticing things. When
I say that two women went up and down that
fire-escape I know what I'm talking about."
Mathison shrugged. It wasn't worth
while arguing.
"The woman with the arctics came first,
then the woman with the sandals. While
the latter was in the room tidying up
things the other was hiding behind the fire-
167
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
escape stairs. Easy on a night like this
with the snow high on the steps. All in the
tracks as plain as the nose on your face.
Arctics came from the room below; sandals
got out of the parlor."
Mathison listened politely. "Very in-
teresting; all in the tracks." He had de-
termined not to dissent. The man had a
right to his theories; but it happened that
John Mathison knew all the facts.
"Bo, this is queer business," said the
detective. "What you've lost don't seem
to curl your hair any. Love-letters! The
fool woman is always writing them and then
bawling to heaven to get them back. . . . For
the love o' Mike, what's this? Is this coat
yours?"
"Yes."
"You are an officer in the United States
navy?"
"I am."
"Well, well! Now there's some reason
to all these fireworks. War stuff!"
"You might caU it that."
"Need any help?"
"You might tell them in the office to send
up two pairs of shoe-strings and a leather-
punch. I'll have to patch up those bags."
168
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Murphy pushed back his hat. "Well,
I'll be tinker-dammed!" Then he laughed.
"I'd like to play poker with you. Two
pairs of shoe-strings! That'll kill 'em cold
in the office. They'll think I've forgotten
my handcuffs. War stuff! No use asking
you what it was the woman took."
"No."
"Well, it's your funeral."
"Exactly. And when you order the
shoe-strings you might send out for an
oak wreath with a purple ribbon."
"Glad you struck the town. There
wasn't even a movie to-night. Bo, I'll give
you all the help I can without asking ques-
tions. I know a fighting-man when I see
him. A fighting-sailor with a talking par-
rot! Well, I'll shoot that order for the shoe-
strings. And when the bird began to talk I
thought there was some one else in the room !"
"There was," said Mathison, in an odd
voice.
"Huh? Spirits? You don't look like a
man who would waste any time with the
ouija-board. Well, here's for the shoe-
strings and the punch."
When the clerk received the order he
made the sender repeat it.
12 169
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Shoe-strings!" he yelled.
"What now?" demanded the house de-
tective, surlily.
"Murphy wants two pairs of shoe-strings
and a leather-punch! I tell you, the whole
house has gone bug. You run up. Murphy's
been hypnotized or he has had a punch of
dope. Here, boy; run down to the Mace-
donian shoeblack and get two pairs of shoe-
strings and a punch. Hustle!"
"Shoe-strings!" Michaels the house de-
tective ran for the elevator. But when he
reached room 320 he was told emphatically
through the door to take his bonehead
down-stairs again. "Cahoots!" he mur-
mured. And all the rest of his life he was
going to hold to the belief that Ellison and
Murphy had divided up the loot.
At eleven o'clock Mathison and Detec-
tive Murphy came down into the lobby.
Murphy carried the parrot-cage. There
was a grin on his face as he left the
elevator, but it vanished as he neared the
desk.
"My bill," said Mathison. He had de-
cided to return to the train.
"What?" The poor clerk stared at Mur-
phy for the key to this riddle.
170
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"The bill, the bill! Give the gentleman
his bill, you dub!"
In turning, the clerk knocked over the
desk-telephone. As he stooped to recover
it he bumped his head against the comer
of the cashier's cage. When he finally pre-
sented the bill he was a total wreck.
"Was it ... ?" he faltered.
"No, it wasn't," snapped Murphy.
"We've all been flimflammed."
"But those names!"
"Can't you recognize Jack Barrymore
when you see him? He's traveling incog."
"But he said -he was the other fellow!"
" WeU, Jack likes his joke."
"I wanted to get back to my room," in-
terposed Mathison, taking pity on the clerk's
bewilderment. "There's been a misunder-
standing all round. Keep the change and
buy yourself some cigars with it."
As Mathison and the detective disap-
peared through the revolving doors the
clerk turned to the cashier. "Keep your
eye on things for a while. Pm going out
and root up a drink. I might understand
something of this if I was full of hootch."
When Mathison and the detective entered
the car George the porter was moving about
171
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
sleepily. "What's de mattah wid dat hotel?"
he demanded, reproachfully.
"Too much excelsior, George, and not
enough feathers."
"Well, I had de bed made up, case yo'
did come back. . . . Lan' sakes, what's hap-
pened t' dem satchels?"
"The chef ran amuck with the cleaver,"
explained Murphy, owlishly. He turned to
Mathison. "Here's that cannon of yours.
Take care of yourself. Gee! if you were a
crook and I was chasing you, what a lot of
fun we'd have!"
"Thanks for the compliment." Truth-
fully, I had expected to spend the night in
jail."
The porter's ears twitched.
The two men shook hands, and Mathison
vanished behind the door of his compart-
ment. George eyed the door speculatively.
Jail. He tiptoed to No. 2 and knocked.
"What is it?" came through the crack.
"He's come back!" George whispered.
CHAPTER XI
TV /T ATHISON undresseed slowly. He was
iVl still hypnotized to a certain extent
by the several amazing events of the night.
From the shadowy corners of the compart-
ment the woman's face persisted in appear-
ing, now in all its warm loveliness, now in
terror, and again like chiseled marble. It
would be a long time before he would be able
to stamp out completely the impression. It
did not seem possible that any woman could
be so lovely outside and so ugly within. The
venom in her glance, just before she stepped
out of the window!
The thought of Hallowell hurt more than
anything else. Unavenged! Bob would lie
in his island grave unavenged. But before
God, he, John Mathison, would take a
double tithe from the Hun. No mercy.
Never would he hear the word Kamerad.
Soon the number on his free-board would
spell Terror.
173
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
He uncovered Malachi and knelt beside
the cage. "Mat! . . . Malachi!" he said.
"Mat! . . . Malachi!" But the only sign
from the bird was a ruffling of the neck and
topknot feathers, a quick dilation of his yel-
low eyes. Two or three minutes earlier in
getting into that room, while the bird's
fright was at full! No way to make
him understand; he was only a parrakeet,
an echo. "Mat! . . . Malachi!" It was
Bob calling; the little bird was only an
echo.
Suddenly Mathison stood up, his face
eager. A real idea! And it never would
have entered his head but for the startling
revelation of what suggestion might ac-
complish. If the woman's tempestuous
actions had awakened the bird's recollec-
tion, what might a reconstruction of the
crime do? Men apparently in desperate
conflict, tables and chairs threshed about,
tumult, cries! How would these react
upon Malachi's memory?
Of course no jury would convict a man
of a crime upon evidence furnished by a
talking parrakeet; but if, by reconstructing
the tragedy, Malachi could be made to
repeat the name Hallowell had called out,
174
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
it would serve to give the authorities a
handhold. Trust them to dig up the truth
eventually. For Mathison was obsessed
with the idea that Hallowell had spoken
a name for Malachi to repeat.
Sleep the lack of sleep. They never
would have gotten to him but for the craving
to sleep. He had gone into the town feel-
ing as keen mentally as ever, and his keen-
ness had been only superficial. He had
sought the open without any definite cam-
paign. Want of sleep. His flesh and bones
had been crying out for sleep, and his brain
stifling the call. Patience. They had had
a little more than John Mathison.
To-night, however, he would satisfy the
craving. There would be no more sleep-
fumes or pistol-shots or turning door-knobs.
By one o'clock the car Mercutio was as
silent as the tomb of Romeo's friend.
Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.
Mathison was asleep, but as yet he had
not conquered that subconscious alertness
of the mind. The sound, light as it was,
awoke him. The porter's signal. Mathi-
son buried his head deeper into the pillow.
Tap, tap; pause; tap, tap.
" What's wanted?" he called, irritably.
175
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
There was no answer. The tapping was
not repeated.
He was too drunk with sleep to get the
real significance. He turned over and fell
asleep again instantly. He came out of
this leaden slumber at seven. The train
was moving, having made up two hours in
the makeshift schedule. The storm out-
side had lost but little of its vigor. He
bathed and dressed and rang for the porter.
"Have the waiter bring me grape-fruit,
oatmeal, and coffee."
"Yes, suh."
"What time will we make New York, if
this keeps up?"
"About six-thutty."
"Did you rap about one o'clock?"
"No, suh."
"You didn't?"
"No, suh. What's de matter wid dat
hotel? Dey all comes rampagin' back
befo' yo' did."
"Passengers in number two?"
"Yes, suh."
"All the passengers returned?"
"On de Mercutio; yes, suh." The whites
of George's eyes began to show.
As for that, so did Mathison's. On board,
176
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
when, logically, they should be miles and
miles away by this hour, by any means of
locomotion they could obtain! Here was
a thundering mystery.
" George, is there a lady next door?"
"Yes, suh."
"Beautiful, with blonde hair?"
"Hain't seen de lady's face, suh."
"Sable coat?"
George nodded. He pushed back his
cap. "Boss, I oughtn't t j tell yo'; but de
man in two is a Secret Service man, an' he's
goin' t' jump yo' de minute we gits int' New
York State. 'Tain't none o' my business
whut yo' done, but I'd kind o' like to give
yo' a chance t' beat it. Ef yo' say so, I
can open de trap befo' we gits int' Buffalo
an' slip yo' out."
"George, you're a top-hole! But how
did you learn that this man is a Secret
Service agent?"
"He done show me de ca'd signed by
Flynn."
"Describe him."
"Big, hair pale yelluh, nice-lookin' an'
friendly."
Mathison wondered if he wasn't asleep.
With the manila envelope and the red book
177
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
in their possession, they were still on the
train! What had happened?
"The man has been asking you questions
about me?"
"Yes, suh. Count o' dat ca'd I had t'
ansuh."
"How does he spend his time?"
"Playin' auction wid two friends. Dey's
Secret Service, too," George added, gloomily.
Four of them. And the three men had
taken turns, all the way across the conti-
nent, in keeping him awake; bribed this
porter, too, to keep tabs and report. Until
his encounter with The Yellow Typhoon,
Mathison had had no real idea of the num-
ber or the descriptions of his pursuers. But
still on board ! That was confounding. It
wasn't logical. . . . He stiffened. To kill
him, now that he could identify the woman?
To swing him off into the dark before he
could get his forces together. There was
logic in that. He smiled at the porter.
"George, I've an idea there must be a
case of mistaken identity in all this. They
mistook me at the hotel last night. There
was a row, and I came back."
George shifted his cap to his right ear
and stared briefly at the slashed kit-bags.
178
"If I'd have been the man they thought
I was I wouldn't be here."
George straightened his cap. There was
something in this explanation that pleased
him.
"Has the Secret Service man asked my
name?"
"No, suh."
"Just as I thought. He's sure I'm the
man; just as they were sure at the hotel.
Well, I sha'n't worry. Everything will be
explained when I reach the Waldorf. You
might drop him the hint I'm going there.
It will save a lot of trouble. But of course
it wouldn't be wise for him to know I told
you to tell him.' 7
"I undahstan', suh."
"Then I'll have my breakfast."
On the wall-hook in compartment 6 hung
a beautiful rose-kimono. There are thou-
sands upon thousands of these lovely robes.
They look exactly alike until you examine
them, and then you note that they differ
as roses themselves differ.
In compartment 2 there was also a rose-
kimono. It was wrapped about the grace-
ful body of The Yellow Typhoon. She
179
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
wound a veil about her head, dropping it
to the tip of her nose. Then she picked up
her dress, her toilet-bag, and started off for
the ladies' dressing-room. There wasn't
room to dress in the compartment, as the
berths had not been made up. She had
slept through the major part of the day.
She floated past compartment 6, the door
of which was slightly ajar. It had been
slightly ajar ever since the departure from
Chicago.
Fifteen minutes later George, the porter,
heard the buzzer. Passenger in 6 was
calling. He hurried off. It was George's
trysting-hour. Tips.
"The luggage to the trap, please. We
wish to leave instantly the train stops at
One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street."
"Yes'm."
"I note that you wear a Liberty Bond
button."
" Yes'm. Got two."
'Then you are a good American?"
"I sho' is, ma'am."
"Very well, then. Here is a box. After the
train leaves One Hundred and Twenty-fifth
Street, you will give this box to the gentle-
man in compartment one. I am trusting
180
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
you because I have to. It is military. If
you fail to deliver it you betray your coun-
try, and in that case woe to you! He will
ask you who gave it to you. You will tell
him the lady in compartment two/'
"Yes'm!" George's tongue had grown
suddenly and mysteriously thick and dry.
" And here is something for your trouble."
It was a gold note for fifty dollars.
George's brain became nearly as dry as his
tongue. Even as he folded the bill and
tucked it into a pocket the train began to
slow down. He swooped up the luggage
and staggered out into the corridor, where
he was obliged to hug the partition to per-
mit the lady coming out of the dressing-
room to pass. The train stopped. He
helped the two women to alight, dumped
the luggage, and jumped aboard, dropping
the trap and running back to the vacant
compartment for the mysterious box.
Military! His brain was as full of kinks as
his wool. But there was one clear idea in
his head nothing could prevent him de-
livering this box to the man in compart-
ment 1.
"Fo' de Ian' sakes!" he murmured. "Ef
dat lady 'ain't went an' fo'got de kimono!"
181
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
With the mysterious box under one arm
and the rose-kimono under the other, he
sallied forth.
Meanwhile, on the platform of the One
Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street station,
there was enacted a scene of tenderness and
animation. The woman who had forgotten
her kimono rushed into the arms of another
woman, statuesque, white-haired. Her face,
alight with joy, was beautiful; but there was
a subtle hint that in repose it would be
tragic.
"My Hilda! My Hilda!" She spoke in
an alien tongue.
" Darling mother!" in the same tongue.
A dapper little man with a Semitic cast
of countenance began to dance about the
two.
* ' Here, here. Stop that lingo ! It sounds
too much like German, and we'll be held
up. Mother Nordstrom, you must remem-
ber!"
"Nonsense, Sammy!" cried the daughter.
'You're always such a fussy old dear!
Glad to see me?"
"I should say yes! But come along.
We've no time to waste."
The quartet which included the Breton
182
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
maid were soon in the comfortable limou-
sine below.
"My !" said the dapper little man. " You're
big medicine to these eyes! Always Johnny
on the spot. You're the only woman of the
kind."
"It was a narrow squeak this time.
Wrecks, delays, snow, and all that."
"How do you feel?" anxiously.
"Splendid!"
"Letter-perfect?"
"Never doubt it! ... New York! . . .
Home! The glorious noise of it! The mag-
nificent hurry! . . . Where are we going to
eat?"
"Theater. Everything's ready in the
office. You'll have half an hour to doze in.
No new people to confuse you; old cast
complete. House sold out week in advance.
The whole town is on its toes to see you.
I am a brute to force you on to-night, with-
out any rest; but you were due three days
ago. And say! when I got that cable I
swore. Never heard of such a thing. And
it turned out to be the most original stunt
of the winter. The town swept clean of
your photographs and lithos, the papers
agreeing not to run Sunday cuts; not even
183
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
a tintype in the lobby. And the whole
town is crazy to know why. Some little
advertising stunt, believe me ! Nothing in
town but your name on three-sheets and
small bills. Hereafter you boss your own
publicity campaigns."
A dry little smile stirred the lips of the
actress.
"Sarah," said the mother to the Breton
maid, "have you taken good care of my
Hilda?"
"She's been a trump, mother!" inter-
rupted the daughter.
"But she looks as if she had been ill."
"No, madame . . . the journey . . ." Two
faces, thought the maid, so alike that only
the good God Himself might distinguish
one from the other!
Her mistress leaned back and closed her
eyes. The train would be in the tunnel
now and the box in Mathison's hands.
What would be his wonder? She could
only imagine. But she knew that to him
she was The Yellow Typhoon, the Snow-
leopard, the gambling woman of the Honan
Road.
In a little while all these momentous
events would become a vague memory to
184
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
him. He would shortly be busy with the
problems of active warfare. He would
never know that a guardian-angel had been
at his elbow for days. How easy it was to
visualize him! sitting on the deck beside
her chair, that funny little green bird cling-
ing to his shoulder! And then that night,
when he told her of his promise to his moth-
er. ... The tenderness of his voice! "Ami
a mollycoddle?" He had asked her that in
all seriousness. . . . Boy!
His puzzlement would be large for a while ;
and out of the chaff of speculation he would
find the grain of fact : The Yellow Typhoon,
to save herself, had betrayed her compan-
ions. Thus Berta would escape prison,
perhaps death.
Irony! The same ancient story Hilda,
sacrificing herself for Berta, now as always;
throwing away what might have been hap-
piness to prevent the ghost from re-enter-
ing the life of the white-haired woman at her
side. And she was practically turning Berta
loose in New York, where she would be likely
to draw a stain across a stainless life. Berta,
free, there would soon be strange tales
afloat, and each and every one of them
would be credited to Norma Farrington.
13 185
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
No matter, so long as the truth could be
kept from the mother. The mockery of the
grave in Greenwood!
An infinitesimal clue: she had left that
because she would not have been human
else. There would be one chance in a
million of his understanding. A little green
feather Malachi's which she had picked
off the deck one morning. She had hidden
it in the little red book. He would find it,
but he would not understand. A miracle,
nothing short of that; and this was not the
day of miracles. . . . Good-by!
As the train drew out of One Hundred
and Twenty-fifth Street station the blond
man returned to No. 2, where he found his
companion completely dressed and waiting.
She was heavily veiled.
"Where's the keys?"
"Your keys? Oh, there they are. on the
berth."
"What was it you wanted?"
"Wanted?" The woman raised the veil
above her lips. "I haven't wanted any-
thing."
"But you came and got my keys!"
"I ... what? I don't know what you
186
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
are talking about. I went directly to the
dressing-room and came straight back."
"Berta, what nonsense is this? You came
for the keys and I gave them to you.
Wittel and Franz saw you."
"Karl, you certainly did not!" alarmed.
The man stared at her for a space. Then
swiftly he knelt before his kit-bag, opened
it and rammed his hand to the bottom,
plowing about.
"Gott!" he whispered, his color fading.
"What has happened?"
"Gone! . . . You devil, what game are you
up to?" he cried, springing up. "I warned
you once never to play with me. Where is
it?"
"Are you mad or am !?...! haven't
touched that bag. ... I will kill you if you
lay a hand on me! Some one has tricked
you. Call the porter."
"Furies of hell! I saw you! The rose-
kimono; it was you!"
"Karl, I tell you it was not I! We have
been tricked. Call the porter."
The man opened the door furiously and
bumped into George, who was sailing airily
along the corridor.
"Come in here!"
187
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
George did not like the tone, but he
obeyed.
"What's that under'your arm?" demand-
ed the woman.
" Kimono. Lady in number six done got
off an' fo'got it."
The woman seized it. "Karl, don't you
see? It is so nearly like mine it would fool
any one! . . . Porter, what was this woman
like?"
"Can't say, ma'am. Always wo' a veil.
Boss, dat young man nex' do' is goin' t'
de Waldorf. I'll be back in a minute fo'
de grips an' de kimono."
George backed out diplomatically. He
did not like the flavor of the atmosphere; too
electrical. Besides, he had a box to deliver.
He was plumb in the middle of the war.
"Berta, I don't understand this. I saw
you! Franz and Wittel will back me!"
With the kimono spread over her knees,
The Yellow Typhoon frowned into space.
' ' Some spy. Saw me somewhere, perhaps
back in that hotel. You were playing cards;
your scrutiny wouldn't be keen. A bit of
court-plaster, a veil, and this kimono ..."
'[The full face, Berta. . . . Fours/"
ominously.
188
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison had donned his uniform, his
greatcoat, packed his kit-bags, and drawn
the cotton-flannel bag over Malachi's cage.
On his breast was pinned the bit of green
ribbon. Presently he heard the signal on
the door. George came in.
"A box fo' yo', suh. . . . My Ian'!" he
broke off.
"What's the matter?' 7 asked Mathison,
eying the box curiously.
"Dem regimentals! Is yo' an officer in
de navy?"
" Yes, George. What's this box? Where
did you get it?"
George jerked his thumb toward the
partition.
"The woman next door?"
"Yes, suh!"
"She gave it to you for me?" astonished
beyond measure.
"Yes, suh."
Mathison rubbed his chin. It might be
some infernal-machine. Still, it had to be
opened. With the lightest touch he untied
the string. With a slow, steady pull he
drew off the cover. Hypnotized, he stared
at the contents. A manila envelope, a little
red book . . . and a folded blue-print!
189
CHAPTER XII
'"THERE are some astonishments which
1 cannot be translated verbally. So
great was Mathison's that he could neither
think nor move. The aftermath of a
thunderbolt affects you like that. When a
certain phase of the hypnosis passed, and
Mathison began to get the hang of life
again, he became conscious of the porter.
He drew out a bill and presented it.
"Thanks. Uncle Sam will be very grate-
ful to you. Any idea what was in this box?"
"De lady said it was military, suh."
Mathison nodded. "The man next door,
George, is not a Secret Service man. I'd
like to tell you all about it, but the time is
too short. By telling him that I'm going
straight to the Waldorf you will be doing
your Uncle Sam an extra service."
"I told him, Cap'n."
"Good! Send a redcap in when the train
stops. Good-by and good luck."
190
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison closed the door and locked it.
The little red book he slipped into an inner
pocket, the manila envelope he dropped into
one of the kit-bags. What he did with the
blue-print will be revealed at the proper
moment. Then he sat down, his brain
beginning to boil with questions. By and
by he came to what he believed to be the
solution of this miracle. The Yellow Ty-
phoon was afraid. She had betrayed her
companions because she saw immunity in
the betrayal. She would never receive it
from John Mathison, Bob Hallowell's friend!
She, too, should pay. All the cards in his
hand again, and he would play them on the
basis that the phrase "blood and iron" was
not pertinent to the Teuton only.
For what had been the primal impetus of
this remarkable journey of ten thousand
miles, of hiding continually behind steel
walls, of refusing to take profit from the
vast power at his service? An eye for an
eye, a tooth for a tooth! That he was a
secret agent, carrying a tremendous unde-
veloped sea-offensive which he still had
by the hair was to his mind, obsessed with
a single idea, an affair of secondary impor-
tance.
191
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Draw the hand strongly across the sur-
face of the water. What happens? A
wave, that follows irresistibly, fatefully,
inescapably. This was, then, primarily a
man-hunt, played backward, probably as
peculiar a man-hunt as was ever conceived.
The pursuers were in reality the pursued.
Being a good psychologist, Mathison had
simply put himself back of his enemies'
point of view. In their minds, who would
be the logical messenger? John Mathison,
transferred to European waters, the familiar
friend of the inventor, the one man living
who knew exactly what the invention in its
entirety was. This established in their
minds, there were ninety-nine chances in a
hundred that they would follow him. And
there was always the possibility that Paolo,
the Spanish servant, had conveyed enough
scraps of information to decide them.
Had he been only vaguely certain that
they carried the blue-print, Mathison would
have used his power and struck immediately
after the sleep-fume attack the first night
on shore. But, he had argued, supposing
he struck and the print was not found?
They would be liberated; forewarned, they
would vanish. He hadn't credited them
192
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
with the stupidity of carrying so dangerous
a thing as that blue-print. In their place
he would have mailed it from San Fran-
cisco, with absolute certainty that it would
reach the hands intended. There was no
censorship over national mail. And now
that the print was in his possession, he never
could prove that it had actually been in
theirs.
For the real point was to secure evidence,
of which to date he had not an iota, not
such as would pass muster in any court out-
side of Germany. To have the blond man
and his companions arrested as matters now
stood would be a waste of time. So his
whole plan was to lure them to a point where
the hand of the law could touch and hold.
An overt act, culpable legally. And The
Yellow Typhoon herself had restored the
means.
There was still one puzzle the woman's
lack of curiosity. She had not opened the
envelope. Had she declared to the blond
man that she had not found it? It would
not be stating it strong enough to say that
she was the most baffling woman he had
ever met; he had never read of one her
match.
193
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
At length Mathison and redcap swung
along with the crowd making for the
gates. Just beyond the gates Mathison
signaled to the redcap to pause. He felt a
hand on his arm, but he did not turn his
head.
" Mathison?" came in a whisper.
"Yes. The blond man with the ruddy
cheeks. The woman behind him in the
sables. Follow and report to your chief."
Mathison went on.
Quarter of an hour later he entered the
Waldorf. This time he seemed indifferent
to the kit-bags. The boy deposited them
along with the cage in front of the desk.
Mathison signed the register, opened one of
the kit-bags, and took out the manila en-
velope, which, before leaving the Philippines,
he had been warned solemnly to guard with
his life.
" Please deposit this in your safe and give
me a receipt." Mathison spoke calmly, but
his heart pounded with suppressed excite-
ment. Carelessly, in view of any who cared
to see, he stuffed the receipt into the little
pocket at the top of his trousers. Then he
went up to his room. He set Malachi on
a stand by the radiator. He emptied the
194
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
kit-bags and distributed the contents into
drawers and closets.
Afraid. The Yellow Typhoon was afraid !
Or was it Hallo well! a touch of remorse?
He sat down and opened the little red
book for some addresses Morgan had given
him. And something fluttered to his knee.
It was a blue-green feather, brilliant as an
emerald. Malachi's; he was always finding
Malachi's feathers. But the sight of this
one recalled a promise he had made him-
self to call up Mrs. Chester's apartment.
If he had to sail before she returned, he
would leave Malachi with the apartment
people. So he stuffed the feather absently
into his match-pocket. Later he sent many
messages over the telephone.
He felt in his pockets for his fountain-pen
and, not finding it, remembered that he
hadn't taken it from the vest of his civilian
suit. Naturally, he went through all the
pockets, and among other things came upon
a folded slip of glazed paper. He opened it.
Several minutes passed. Mathison was
like stone. Norma Farrington. He saw
now why the photograph had originally
intrigued him. It resembled Morgan's de-
scription of the woman known as The Yel-
195
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
low Typhoon! . . . Absurd! It was not with-
in reason. Some twist, some legerdemain
the photograph had given it. The shad-
ows; these had something to do with
it. Norma Farrington, The Yellow Ty-
phoon? The absurdity was patent. The
notorious woman of Honan Road could not
possibly be a celebrity on Broadway. Too
many miles between.
He sprang to the telephone. ''Give me
the theater-ticket agency. . . . Hello! Is
Norma Farrington playing in town? . . . She
is? . . . What theater? . . . Thanks!" Mathi-
son got out the little red book with trem-
bling fingers. He rang up a number. "This
is Mathison, the green ribbon. What's the
report on the woman in the sables? . . . All
right. I'll hold the wire." Five minutes
passed. " Hello! . . . Entered a house in
Fiftieth Street? Fine!" Mathison con-
sulted the time; it was seven-fifty. _
He became a whirlwind. He flew^down-
stairs and plunged toward the revolving
doors.
"Taxi!"
The vehicle was forthcoming instantly,
due to his visored cap, gold bands, and star.
He jumped into the taxi, naming a theater
196
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
up-town. He paid a speculator five dollars
for the only seat left Q, center. As he
was late, he had to navigate through chan-
nels of reluctant feet. Norma Farrington!
He had only one idea with four sides to it
something complete.
The footlights flashed. When the curtain
rolled up there were three people on the
stage no one he had ever seen before.
They moved about and talked. Occasion-
ally a ripple of laughter ran over the house.
But none of these things meant anything
to Mathison. He was not conscious of a
word that was spoken or the significance of a
single movement.
There were four entrances to this stage
living-room, and Mathison grew dizzy try-
ing to watch all four at once. At eight-
forty, through the French window you
saw a charming garden beyond came a
woman in gray. Her expression was de-
mure mischievously demure. The audi-
ence broke into applause. Tense, Mathison
strained his ears.
Outside the blond man waited with the
patience of his breed. His glance never
left the entrance to the theater.
CHAPTER XIII
S soon as the curtain fell Mathison
stood up and plowed his way out to the
aisle. Once in the aisle, he rushed to the
foyer, where he demanded the way to the
managerial office. His uniform was open
sesame.
The producing manager, a dapper, bright-
eyed Jew, happened to be in, and he was
outlining a campaign for his press agent
when Mathison burst in.
"I am Lieutenant - Commander John
Mathison," he announced, a bit out of
breath for his run up the stairs.
" What's the difficulty?" asked the man-
ager, coolly. "Anchor afoul my unlighted
sign?"
Mathison laughed. He understood at
once that here was a good sport. "Pardon
my abruptness," he apologized. "I'd like
to use your telephone."
The manager waved his hand. He heard
Mathison's side of the conversation.
198
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Mathison. What's the report from
Fiftieth Street? . . . The woman still inside?
Thanks No, that's all." Mathison hung
up the receiver dreamily.
"What's happened?" asked Rubin, ironi-
cally. "Have we sunk the German fleet?"
"We are going to," said Mathison. "I
want a messenger the quickest way I can
get him."
"War stuff?" thrilled in spite of his re-
sentment at the intrusion. Rubin was an
autocrat in the theatrical world.
"Well, I don't believe you'd call it that.
I want to get some flowers."
The manager sank back. "You sailors!
I thought maybe a submarine was loose
outside!" He was going to add a sting,
when a boot came into contact with his
shin, a sign that the alert press agent had
something on his mind. "Flowers!"
"I have come ten thousand miles to send
these flowers," replied Mathison, smiling.
"Get a head usher, Klein," said the mana-
ger, secretly bubbling. What a humdinger
for the morning papers ! As the press agent
vanished, Rubin turned to Mathison. "You
may send flowers, but not across the lights.
I will not break that rule for anybody."
199
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"So long as she gets them. May I write
a note?"
The manager got up and indicated his
chair. " Write as many as you like. I take
it that the flowers are for Miss Farrington."
"They are."
"Do you know her?" curiously.
"I do." The smile was still on Mathi-
son's lips.
" In that case, go ahead. But if it happens
that she doesn't recall you, your posies will
go directly to the ash-can. She isn't easy
to know."
"I know her," insisted Mathison.
"I rather wish, though, that you would
put this off until to-morrow night. Miss
Farrington will be very tired. She's done
a fine and generous thing gone on without
rest, after an unbroken journey from the
other side of the world."
"No one is better aware of that than I.
She will see me."
Rubin knew confidence when he saw it.
He twisted his cigar from one corner of his
mouth to the other. A vigorous, unusual
chap, this, and handsome enough to wake
up The Farrington. Ten thousand miles!
Her aloofness toward men was now ac-
200
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
counted for. An old affair nobody had
heard of. There was an ominous portent
in this affair for Broadway. She was the
loyalest of the loyal; she'd stick to her con-
tract. But after!
Mathison settled down to his note. Each
time he balled up a piece of paper and flung
it into the waste-basket Rubin frowned.
The press agent came storming back, an
usher in tow. The latter was given fifty dol-
lars and ordered to purchase Parma violets.
"No tinfoil, no tinsel strings, no bouquet;
loose, as they came from the soil. Carry
this note and the flowers to Miss Fairing-
ton's dressing-room. And here is some-
thing for your trouble." To the manager
he said, "Thanks for your courtesy."
"You're as welcome as the spring."
"Oh, boy!" cried the press agent as the
door closed behind Mathison. "In a dead
world like this! A real yarn, no faking.
Did you lamp the roll he dragged out?
That was real money, all yellows. Think
of it! Our Norma, a navy man, ten
thousand miles, flowers, a wad of yellows!
She'll set up a holler. Pass the buck to
me. I'll be the goat with the cheerfulest
smile ever!"
14 201
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Klein, we sha'n't use this."
"What?" barked the press agent.
"No. It's real. This is no Johnny.
Norma is no chorus beauty. Of course, I
jumped at the idea, but we'll have to pass
it up. I wouldn't lose Norma's genuine
affection for me for a million three-sheets,
free of charge. No. Lock it up and forget
it."
"Well, what do you know about that?"
Mathison returned to his seat, apologiz-
ing to every one so courteously and agree-
ably that even the men forgave him. He
was quite calm now. All incertitude was
gone; he knew. The Yellow Typhoon was
in a house in Fiftieth Street, and Norma
Farrington was yonder on the stage, de-
lighting his eyes, thrilling his ears. The
wonder of her! God bless her, she had
tried to save Bob Hallo well that night!
And he would never have known but for
that posed photograph!
She did not wear any of the flowers in
the second act, nor in the third; but when
she came on in the fourth she carried a small
bouquet in her corsage. She was Joyous-
ness. It radiated from her into the audi-
ence. Faces all over the house were beam-
202
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ing, not with merriment, but with good
humor.
There came a little moment when throats
became stuffy one of those flashes of
tenderness whose link is generally laughter.
When the whole house was watching the
comedienne tensely, in absolute silence,
Mathison laughed aloud, joyously! Heads
swinging resentfully in his direction woke
him up. His cheeks flushed.
Doubtless by this time you have formed
the impression that Mathison had lost his
compass, that he was drifting, that he had
forgotten the vital business which had
brought him all these thousands of miles.
Nothing could be farther from the truth.
Ah 1 these little eddies, currents, whirlpools
were at the sides of the stream, that flowed
on, impervious, inevitable.
For a man whose soul was in haste he
took his time. His movements within the
theater and outside in the lobby were
leisurely. On the street he made no effort
to bore through. But when he reached the
corner he was off like a shot toward the dark
alley which led to the stage door. This he
plunged through recklessly into the arms of
the ancient Cerberus who tended the door.
203
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Outside, outside! The comic opera has
went!"
Mathison presented his card. "Miss
Farrington is expecting me."
"Oh, she is, huh? Well, she said nothin'
to me about it."
"I'll wait."
"You're welcome; but in the alley,
admiral, in the alley. Nobody gits by me
to-night, comin' in. Orders."
"I don't suppose ten dollars would in-
terest you in the least."
"Not unless I saw it. Honest, now, are
you meetin' Miss Farrington?"
"I am. I'll be peaceful, Tirpitz; but
if you send for the stage-hands, I'm likely
to shoot up the place."
"All right. I'll take it in two fives."
Mathison discovered that he was now
free to walk about as he pleased, so long
as he did not amble in the direction of the
dressing-rooms. He anchored himself by
the wall, from where he could see all who
came down the narrow iron staircase. The
draughty, musty, painty odors were to him
like perfumed amber from Araby.
By and by two women came down. They
went past Mathison without taking any
204
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
notice of him. They were followed shortly
by a man whom Mathison recognized as
the conceited ass who made love to Miss
Farrington in the play.
A row of lights overhead went out. The
stage was now in a kind of twilight. I
wonder if there is a sadder place than a stage
when the actors have left it to the tender
mercies of scene-shifters, carpenters, and
electricians? To Mathison it was only the
door to Ali Baba's cave.
At length thirty minutes, to be exact
a woman came down the stairs slowly. A
veil was wrapped about her face and hair.
But Mathison would have recognized that
sable coat anywhere. He stepped forward
shakily and took off his cap.
"I suppose it's still snowing outside?"
casually.
"What we sailors call thick weather." No
questions; just an ordinary, every-day query
about the weather. No confusion. u You
are not afraid to shake hands?"
"I don't know just what to do."
"Oh, I'd return the hand." His laughter
rocked the lurking echoes above.
And something in that laughter made her
afraid of him, of herself.
205
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Where in the world did you find all
those violets loose, the way I love them?"
She did not give him time to answer. "My
car is at the end of the alley. Where shall
we go? I'm going to give you a half -hour.
... I suppose it was written."
"That I should find you? Yes."
"I like the way you say that." Had the
porter betrayed her? And yet the porter could
not have betrayed anything beyond the fact
that she, not Berta, had given him that
box. Some unforeseen stroke of luck; cer-
tainly not that feather. He was no brother
to the Cumsean Sibyl. Still, he had found
her. She was tremendously curious to
learn how. On the other hand, she was
determined to ask him no questions and, as
adroitly as she could, evade his. If he
persisted, she would cut the meeting short.
Some day if she ever saw him again she
would tell him the story. She was too
weary to-night. She was at once happy
and miserable; happy because it was as
though his finding her had been written,
miserable because the sordid denouement
might break at any moment. To save
Berta, not for Berta's sake, but for the
mother's.
206
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
She knew that she was beautiful, that she
possessed extraordinary talent in attracting
men, though she had never used it. She
knew what power lay in expression, in vocal
music. She might have made this man
love her. For if he had not been drawn to
her through some mysterious forces, why
had he sought her? Those flowers! There
were gall and wormwood in this cup, but she
drank it with a smile. Romance, and she
must let it go by!
What had he learned within these four
short hours? That she was not The Yellow
Typhoon, certainly. Had there been a
cable from that man Morgan, after his
solemn promise? The gray wig and the
goggles . . .
"What did you say?"
"That we had better be moving. You
take me wherever you think best."
"Give me your arm. It will be slippery
in the alley. There's an umbrella hi the
corner by the door. Take it."
Outside, he put up the umbrella; and as
she took his arm she knocked against some-
thing heavy and hard in his pocket.
"What is that?"
"Part of a sailor's paraphernalia."
207
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"It is not over yet?" with sudden sus-
picion.
"No. There are a few threads that need
picking up."
The metal in his voice did not escape her.
She was puzzled, for, logically, all his land
adventures should be over.
It was only a short distance to the res-
taurant, which was a famous one.
She selected it tactfully, solely on his ac-
count. She herself had never been inside
of it before in the evening. But she knew
a good deal about men, that even so nice a
one as this fresh-skinned, blue-eyed sailor-
man would not object to having his vanity
played up to. There was another kind of
thought besides in her mind. The night
would be far more memorable if there was
a background of color and movement and
music. She was weak enough to want him
always to remember this night.
The moment she took off her veil and
coat she was recognized. That is the
penalty of theatrical fame in New York.
The head waiter passed the word, and the
people at the near-by tables stared and
whispered; and Mathison wouldn't have
been human if he had not expanded a little
208
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
under this patent interest in his lovely
companion.
How was he to know that the gown she
wore had been donned expressly for him?
How was he to know that it had been sent
for after the arrival of the flowers, or that
she had worried all through the performance
for fear her mother would send the wrong one,
or that it might reach the theater too late?
Later, Mathison could not have told
whether she wore green or blue or red. No
normal man would have paid any attention
to her gown with her face, her eyes, her
lips to watch.
Their orders scandalized the waiter. Miss
Farrington ordered two apples and Mathi-
son a bowl of bread and milk. They laughed.
"That's all I ever eat at night fruit."
"And I didn't come here to eat," he said.
About this time the blond m; n, occupied
by a single idea, entered the restaurant
lobby, gave his hat and coat to the check-
boy, then walked out to the curb and ap-
proached the footman.
"Dismiss Miss Farrington's limousine.
She will go home with us."
"Yes, sir." The footman went down to
execute the order.
209
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The blond man waited until he saw the
gray limousine maneuver out of the line
and swing into the street; then he returned
for his hat and coat. The Farrington was
nothing to him. He had never heard of
her until to-night. Ordinarily he might
have been curious enough to have had her
pointed out. To-night such curiosity might
dissipate his cleverly conceived plans. Per-
haps Mathison had not seen him actually.
Anyhow, he did not intend to risk the future
to satisfy a curiosity which was only negli-
gible. If he had looked into that dining-
room, it is quite possible this tale would
have had a different ending. As matters
stood, he had reason to be grateful to the
actress. She had opened a way for him.
A man with a pretty woman in his charge
would not be particularly keen mentally.
" Did you like the play?"
Mathison shook his head.
"You didn't like it?" astonished.
'Til see it before I sail."
"Then you weren't in the theater to-
night?"
"Oh yes; in Q. I was the ass who
laughed out loud when the whole house was
so still you could have heard a pin drop."
210
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"You? ... I heard that, and wondered
what had happened. But if you saw the
play . . ."
" That's just the point. I wasn't an
audience; I was a spectator."
Something in his eyes, a lurking fire,
warned her not to press in this direction.
After all, he had not come to see the play;
he had come to see her. And the knowledge
was like the warmth from a wood fire.
"A sailorman! No doubt a girl in every
port."
"No." Without vehemence. "The same
girl in every port, in the fire, in the moon-
mists; the girl who has been in my heart
since I was a boy."
"Oh." A little dagger-stab in her heart.
"Then you have come back to marry before
you go across?"
"Quite likely."
"Love, marriage, off to the wars! . . .
What is she like?"
"Petrol on water."
She stared blankly.
"If you have never seen wide spreads of
petrol on a smooth sea," he explained,
"then you have missed something inde-
scribably beautiful. Fire! Dawns, sun-
211
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
sets, moonlight; all the flashing gems in the
world, moving, circling, advancing, re-
treating. The soul of a woman should be
like that."
"Are you a poet?"
"Possibly, but inarticulate. I don't know
one rhyme from another."
"But poetry isn't rhyme. Your descrip-
tion of oil on water is poetry."
He laughed. "If the wardrooms ever
find that out, I'm done for." The glory
of her! All his life he had been dreaming
of an hour like this.
A pause followed. His utter lack of in-
quisitiveness intrigued her beyond expres-
sion. Not a word about how he had found
her. Not a word about the Adventure.
Why? What kind of a man was he, that
he could sit opposite her without deluging
her with questions? And he had a right to
know many things. She had given him one
opening without meaning to the query
relative to the automatic in his pocket.
Why hadn't he taken advantage of it?"
She broke the silence and led him into
the war; but alter a few phrases he veered
away from this. He spoke of the snow, how
he longed for the north country of late, how
212
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
he had grown weary for the need of cold,
lashing winds and the smell of snow.
When she could stand it no longer she
said, "Tell me by what magic you found
me!"
"I'm a queer codger. I have a strange
memory for sounds. Possibly because I've
lived much in the open. My leaves were
generally spent in the jungles. Foliage
moving I can tell almost instantly whether
it is the wind or animal life. The same
with the crackling of a twig. Sometimes
the recurrence of a sound confuses me.
There may be some difficulty in placing it.
But I know I have heard the sound before."
Then he produced the photograph. She
stared at it bewilderedly. Sound? What
was he talking about?
"You found me by that? But vou did
not hear that!"
"Still, it recalled a sound."
Her glance fell on the photograph again.
She had forgotten the posing for it. This
was not the sort of denouement she wanted;
he had found her quite ordinarily. Yet
she could not make him out. This was not
the man she had known on the Nippon
Maru, the boy who had been like crystal
213
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
or an open book. This was an inscrutable
stranger, of velvet and steel.
"I begin to understand," she said. She
felt the mantle of weariness falling again
on her shoulders. The hide-and-seek of
the encounter irked her. Why didn't he
speak, demand questions, satisfy her curios-
ity? She was very tired. He would never
know how much awake she had been on
that journey. She had walked the car
corridors at all hours; she had watched for
Berta to pass the crack in the door until
the concentration had made her dizzy. She
was tired, and she hadn't the power to
resist her own curiosity. She flung open
Bluebeard's door recklessly. "I begin to
understand."
"What?"
"Why you were sent on this hazardous,
mission. You are quite sufficient unto
yourself. I believed I was doing a fine,
brave thing."
" Ah, but it was a fine, brave thing. You
made it possible for me to go on. Secret
service!"
"It would be useless to deny it." She
leaned on her elbows, locking her ringless fin-
gers under her chin. "It's not generally
214
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
known, but I am of Danish stock. I came
to America when I was very little. I spoke
no English. There were lean years; yes,
even poverty. But I had a little talent
the faculty of making people smile. Not
all aliens are ungrateful. This is now my
country. I love it!" Her eyes flashed.
"It made me all I am, gave me all I have.
It has been glorious to me. Long ago I
vowed if ever the chance came I would pay
back these benefactions with my life if
need be!"
Mathison's conduct was logical enough.
All he had wanted was to see her, hear her
voice for a little while, get one absolute
fact, a fact she could not withhold from
him, being unaware of what he was seek-
ing. He would satisfy his curiosity, dis-
perse these mysteries, after his work was
done. Before this night was over one of
two things was going to happen. He was
going to succeed or he was going to be badly
hurt. He now had a tolerably keen insight
into the character of this glorious woman.
She was brave and resourceful. The slight-
est hint of what was on foot and she might
seek to intervene, with the best of inten-
tions, and spoil everything. But day after
215
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
tomorrow when he returned from Wash-
ington!
" It is very wonderful to be here to-night,"
he said.
After that her heart grew warm again.
She, too, knew the value of sounds. At
least he was grateful. That weapon in his
pocket she longed to ask him about that.
But a question here might alarm him. He
must not suspect the plan she had in her
head. Logically the great adventure was
at an end; but they may have threatened
his life. She stood up.
"I'm a brute!" he cried, contritely. "I
forgot that you must be weary beyond
measure."
He held the sable coat for her, particu-
larly careful not to touch her. As she was
wrapping the veil about her hair and face
he asked if he might come to tea the day
after.
"I'll tell you. In a little while I shaU be
in the thick of it. I may not come back.
In my room at the hotel I've a little Rajpu-
tana parrakeet green as an emerald. Fact
is, he's the only pal I have to-day. He
hates the sea. May I give him to you?"
She trembled. "Tome?" Malachi!
216
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Yes that is, if you'd like him. He
talks. Wait." He fumbled about in a
pocket. "Here's a little feather of his. It
will give you an idea of what a brilliant color
he has. May I give him to you?"
"Yes!" The blood whipped into her
throat. The girl he saw in every port:
what about her? Why didn't he offer the
bird to her? . . . That feather! It wasn't
humanly possible that he understood and
was playing with her.
Truth is he was thousands of miles away
from the message. But there were other
roads to Rome ; and he knew what he knew.
"Then I may come to tea day after to-
morrow?"
"Yes," She turned away from the table.
Upon reaching the curb she wheeled upon
Mathison. "My car!" she cried, dismayed.
"What's the matter?"
"It isn't here!"
Mathison hailed the footman. "What
has become of Miss Farrington's car?"
"Why, sir, she gave orders to dismiss it!"
Mathison returned to Miss Farrington.
"Some mistake. They've dismissed it."
"Taxi, sir?" said a man at Mathison's
elbow.
15 217
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
' ' Yes. Here, Miss Farrington ; j ump into
this. Day after to-morrow at four. Good
night."
"But you are coming with me!"
"No."
"I say yes!"
"No."
"Then I'll walk to the Subway four
blocks. I shall ruin my dress, my shoes,
and my temper. I am going to take you
back to the hotel."
The last place in the world Mathison
intended going at this hour. The devil
and the deep blue sea! He was confident
that she would do just as she threatened
walk. But this he knew: the moment he
entered this taxi it would become a trap
a trap he would jump into with the greatest
cheerfulness, alone. What to do? He could
not give her any warning, with the strange
chauffeur's ear scarcely a foot off. And
under no circumstances must the blond man
see Norma Farrington's face this night.
"A compromise," he said, believing he
had found a solution to the difficulty. "I'll
go with you if you will let me take you home
first."
"Agreed!" she cried, readily. She smiled
218
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
in the dark of the cab. This was exactly
what she wanted. Once at the apart-
ment, she would discharge this taxi and
order one she was tolerably sure of.
He laughed and sprang into the cab. The
snow was coming down thickly. Corners
were dim; the street-lamps hung in a kind
of pearly twilight. A strange silence fell
upon them.
I don't suppose either of them marked
the turns. Perhaps the impenetrable haze
had something to do with it. You are not
ordinarily attracted by nebulous objects.
Again, it might have been due to the fact
that they were both fatalists. Suddenly
the cab stopped with a slewing jerk. The
door opened. The man who opened it
presented his arm stiffly. Neither Miss
Farrington nor Mathison had to be in-
formed regarding that blue-black bit of
metal at the end of that arm. She shrank
back, but not in fear. Her idea was to
give Mathison all the elbow room he might
require.
"Step out, both of you, with your hands
up quickly!"
CHAPTER XIV
"T~"\O what you think best," she mur-
I J mured across Mathison's shoulder.
" Please do not consider me at all."
But Mathison stepped out tamely, his
hands above his head. She followed,
slightly chilled. Her arms hung at her side.
This was not quite as she would have had
it. Why didn't he attempt to distract the
man with the automatic arguments, pro-
tests, threats? There was always a chance.
She was not afraid of pistol-shots, and he
ought to know that. Chilled and disap-
pointed, she stood beside him.
"The lady will put up her hands also."
Nothing of the speaker's face could be seen,
only his pale-blue eyes, which snapped
frostily over the rim of the black handker-
chief.
"The lady will do nothing of the kind,
for the obvious reason that the cut of her
coat will not permit it."
220
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Mathison tightened his lips. Unafraid!
"Brandt!"
The chauffeur jumped down from the
taxicab.
" Search them for weapons."
The chauffeur rifled Mathison's pockets,
and tossed the heavy Colt to his superior.
Then he seized Miss Farrington by the arm.
He started to run his free hand over her,
when she struck his cheek with a lively
report.
"No man shall touch me like that!"
Mathison intervened. "Just a moment.
I'll keep my hands up, but on condition
that no indignity shall be offered this lady.
Otherwise you will have to shoot me."
"No indignity will be offered the lady.
So far as I am concerned, she does not
exist. Her word that she is unarmed, and
no one shall touch her."
" I give it." A diversion for his sake, and
he had not taken profit! What was the
meaning of this singular tameness?
"March up those steps, both of you.
The lady will have to share your luck until
it is advisable to release you. March!"
Mathison put his arm under Miss Far-
rington's and helped her up the icy steps.
221
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
In the faintest whisper: "Do not lift up
your veil while in this house. There is
danger. Do not speak unless I give you
the lead."
The door opened to admit them and
they stood in a dimly lighted hallway.
"The parlor; you will find it comfortable."
Inside the parlor Mathison was ordered
to halt. With a detached air he obeyed.
Miss Farrington shuddered. She saw the
man in the black handkerchief search the
little pocket at the top of Mathison 's
trousers and extract a bit of paper, folded.
What was it?
"A long chase, but we are patient. The
receipt! . . . Yankee swine!" The man struck
Mathison across the mouth, stepped back
quickly, the automatic ready.
Mathison did not stir, but his tan faded;
and presently a thin trickle of blood ran
down his chin.
"You despicable coward!" she cried.
"How like the Hun!"
"Be silent! Your immunity is not irrev-
ocable."
A receipt of deposit! She understood
now. A receipt of deposit for that manila
envelope. To have come all this way, and
222
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
then lose! And it came to her like a blow
that she herself was directly the cause.
He had not wanted to get into the taxi, and
she had forced him. In trying to save him
she had merely led him to defeat. But
the tameness, when she knew that he was
quick as light!
"You will be detained about an hour.
A telephone-call will release you. Madame,
my thanks. You made everything very-
easy for us. Without your innocent as-
sistance there might have been difficulties.
Unwittingly, you have entered the war
zone, with casualties."
Then, with an ironical wave of the hand,
the man in the black handkerchief stepped
forth and closed the door.
Mathison pulled out his handkerchief and
wiped his lips, turning gradually so that
his back was toward the double doors.
"I could cry!" she said. "All my fault!"
Mathison laid a warning finger on his
bruised lips. Instinctively he knew that
he was being watched. The affair wasn't
over yet
"Please don't feel badly. The fortunes
of war. The thing is done. Don't bother
any more about it."
223
THE ^YELLOW TYPHOON
"But you wouldn't have surrendered like
this if I hadn't been with you!"
"I'd have put up some kind of a scrap,
I suppose. I should have kept my head,
and didn't."
"But through fault of mine . . ."
"It might have been worse," he inter-
rupted. "They didn't hurt you. I'll be
given my destroyer. I'm a good navigator.
Better take off your coat; otherwise you will
feel it when you go out." He laid his hands
on her shoulders and whispered: "Be on
your guard ! They must not know that you
know. Follow my leads. They are watch-
ing or listening."
"I'll keep the coat on." She sat down,
trembling.
He began to walk about. From time to
time he touched his lips with his handker-
chief.
She watched him. All through the night he
had puzzled her as no man had ever puzzled
her before. She knew that he was strong,
resourceful, courageous. And yet he had
taken that blow on the mouth without
comment, without a sign of wrath. Re-
sourceful, he had carried that receipt with
him. Her fault, directly and indirectly.
224
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
His discovery that Norma Farrington
Hilda Nordstrom and The Yellow Ty-
phoon were two individuals had befogged
his foresight. He had probably dashed out
of the hotel with no thought but of finding
her. It would have been the simplest thing
in the world to leave the receipt in the key-
box. Beaten because of her!
"Think of finding you!" he said. He
covered the length of the room again. "No
doubt you think I'm a queer codger. The
fact is I never waste time or energy in
wailing. When I lose I pay. When I win
I pocket the stakes. I never drop out of a
game, once I take up the cards." He sat
down beside her. "Do you believe in love
at first sight?"
Good Heavens! But she managed to
say, calmly, "In a play?" She lifted the
veil to the tip of her nose. "Oh yes. It
goes very well that way." A cue? Very
good; she would follow up this bewildering
lead, even if her heart did begin to act
queerly.
"I mean in real life."
"I never fell in love with any one off-
stage; so I'm not in a position to speak.
The trouble with me is I have a fatal gift
225
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
of reading men at a glance. I have always
revolted at the idea of marrying a man I
knew all about on my wedding-day. He
must be a fine story-book to be read a page
at a time, to offer a mystery tantalizing
enough to create a longing to solve it. And
if I ever do marry I shall go on with my
work. Why? Because I shall always be
puzzling him just a little. In marriage
absolute knowledge always makes for dull-
ness."
Of all the amazing, heartrending subjects
to select ! And she could not tell him that he
was hurting her dreadfully. . . . His poor
lips! All her fault.
That voice! he thought. In his ears it
was sweeter than the intoning of choirs in
cathedrals. He glanced at his wrist-watch.
Probably the man was at the desk, present-
ing the receipt. God send he did not pass
the job on to a confederate! In twenty
minutes, perhaps, the call would come for
their release. Mathison ran his tongue
over his throbbing lips. Then he smiled a
smile through which his teeth flashed
whitely.
She, watching him, waited for him to
carry on. His bent head was so close that
226
it was hard to resist that old inclination
to touch it with her hand. All this talk
about love! . . . He was merely passing the
time. But when she saw that smile her
eyes widened behind her veil. It was a
terrible smile, savage, relentless, and con-
fident!
And then, in one of those blinding rib-
bons of light that flash across the storms,
she saw distinctly the meaning of the whole
affair. Each time the recollection of the
manila envelope returned to her mind fog
enshrouded it. She could see nothing but
a childish whim in the superscriptions and
decorations. His own name and rank
sprawled across the middle and a photo-
graph at each end of himself in mufti and
uniform. The Machiavellian cunning of
it! Boy! Would she ever be able to caU
him that again? She thrilled.
"What shall I call you? Lieutenant-
commander is so formal and Mister is an
abomination."
"Call me John. My mother thought it
a good name."
"Not Jack?"
"Too many Jacks in the navy. I'd like
very much if you'd call me John."
227
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Mathison. I believe for the present
I'll call you Mathison. That's comrade-y.
And day after to-morrow we shall have tea
together."
"And I'll bring Malachi. But I warn
you he swears dreadfully sometimes, when
he's happy."
"I'd love him!" She laughed. A few
moments ago she hadn't believed she could
ever laugh again joyously. After all, what
did her affairs amount to in this great game?
She was an infinitesimal grain of sand, in-
considerable. A trap for his enemy, and
she had almost spoiled it. And casually
he had said he had a few loose threads to
pick up!
She was reasonably certain now that all
recollection of the old lady on the Nippon
Maru had passed from his mind. Why not?
Why should a young man of thirty keep
fresh in his memory an old woman osten-
sibly sixty? He had found Hilda Nord-
strom, and that was sufficient for the pres-
ent.
"Did I see the red and blue lights of a
drug-store down the street as we came
along?"
"I don't remember."
228
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The double doors rolled back smoothly
and The Yellow Typhoon stepped into the
room, sending the doors shut again. She
leaned with her back against one of the
doors, and the crooked smile on her lips
almost hid the little mole.
Mathison was on his feet immediately,
his nerves singing. All along he had expect-
ed such a moment; and yet, now that it had
come, it stupefied him. He stood so that
he partially covered Miss Farrington. He
wondered if any man had ever before been
confronted by such a situation. He man-
aged to throw a bit of gallantry into his
bow.
"And how is the jealous husband to-
night?"
"He is doing nicely at this moment,
thank you. You and the lady are free to
go."
"Ah!"
Mathison started to turn, but stopped,
fascinated by the singular change which
was passing over the face of the woman in
front of him. Slowly her hands reached
out on each side, fingers spread; her body
seemed to shrink.
"Hilda?"
229
CHAPTER XV
MATHISON stepped aside, not only
physically, but figuratively. He saw
that for a little while he was to be an out-
sider. There was a strange tragedy here,
and it was going to be threshed out imme-
diately. The attitude of the two women
was a dead reckoning that there were ac-
counts to settle. Already they seemed to
have forgotten him.
Of course he had known, or at least sus-
pected, that these two remarkable women
were sisters twins. From the moment he
had discovered that posed photograph,
located The Yellow Typhoon in this very
house, established the fact that Norma
Farrington was acting on the stage that
night, he had known.
From where he stood, ill at ease and rest-
less, he could see the two faces. So alike
that, separately, it was impossible to tell
which was which or that there were two.
230
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Witness his own adventures in that hotel
room. The detective had declared that
two women had mounted that fire-escape
because he had seen nothing but footprints.
But the two together, as Mathison now saw
them! The one with the white soul of her
shining in her face; the other a sphinx.
Hilda he would never think of her as
Norma again a white page with a beauti-
ful poem written thereon; the other, a page
with a cryptogram. A miracle; he could
call it nothing else; a physical allegory, the
good fairy and the bad. The forest pool
that slaked your thirst; the lying mirage of
the desert. And yet the mirage was no less
glorious to the eye than the honest pool.
He knew he would never again mistake the
one for the other.
The shock over, the reality confirmed,
The Yellow Typhoon gathered her shat-
tered forces. She folded her arms, and her
body seemed to expand.
" Hilda ! . . . Well, why not? I knew that
if I returned to New York our paths would
cross again. I did not will it. But what
will be will be. Always meddling, always
trying to thwart me!"
"Yes, Berta; the same old Hilda, always
231
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
bearing the brunt of your misdeeds, always
sacrificing herself to shield you ... to save
the mother a hurt. For what I did never
hurt her; she loved you, tolerated me. And
the bitter irony of it all lies in the fact
that she would have stood away from you
but for my sacrifices, which misled her.
Yes, I am Hilda."
"You!" rasped Berta. "It was you,
then, who wore that kimono ! You, turned
Yankee swine!"
"I, who have sworn loyalty to the land
you would betray. I tried to save you,
but you would not have it."
"Save me? On the contrary, your safety
depends upon my good nature. I hold you
and this mollycoddle in the palm of my
hand. Take care!"
"You never could frighten me, Berta.
You know that. Eight years ! Do you real-
ize that you have been dead eight years?"
"There are many kinds of death some of
our own choosing," said Berta, insolently.
"I mean the dead who never more return.
Eight years ago the mother and I buried
you in Greenwood."
"What?" explosively. "What are you
telling me?"
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"The Berta who was found in the river,
recognizable only by the dress she wore and
the locket. And every spring the mother
goes there with flowers. Your ghost is not
pleasant to see, Berta. The horror of that
night in Shanghai, when I learned the truth,
that you were alive, notorious ! The owner
of a gambling-house in the Honan Road!
Nightmare! Who was it we buried?" Hilda
stepped forward menacingly.
Fine steel and hammered brass, thought
Mathison. He could not touch the woman
of brass now; she was Hilda's sister, and
Hilda should say what should be done. Nor
could he smother the spark of admiration.
Bad she might be, ruthless and predatory,
but she was no weakling. Whatever her
end, she would meet it hotly. He saw that
Hallowell had been stronger than Samson,
since this Delilah had not shorn his locks.
Sisters who had not seen each other in
eight years deadly antagonists ! He could
not help philosophizing a little over this
phenomenon of life. Sisters and brothers;
the long roll of bitter tragedies from the day
Cain grew jealous of Abel! He wished he
was elsewhere. It was sacrilege to witness
the baring of two souls.
16 233
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Who was it we buried?" repeated Hilda.
Berta frowned. Eight years, a long
tune to remember the trivial incidents as-
sociated with the abandonment of her peo-
ple. All at once her eyes flashed and a
corner of her lip went up in a twisted smile.
"I remember now. I gave the old clothes
and the locket to a creature on the street.
So she killed herself, and I am dead! No
wonder you left me in peace!"
"Thief!" cried Hilda, flaming. "You
cold-blooded thief! You took the last
jewel that mother had and pawned it the
jewel she had been clinging to desperately
the last link to the life she had known. The
tragedy was nothing to you. You pawned
it to buy a new dress, a new hat. What
was her love for you? Something for you
to prey upon; and, having preyed upon the
last morsel, you took wing, like the kite you
are! I discovered what had become of the
jewel. Without her knowing it, I worked
nights for months to reclaim it. Then I
'found' it. I would waste my breath if I
cried 'Shame! 1 "
"Then don't waste your breath, Hilda.
Shame? I am my father's daughter, and
I take what pleases me when and where I
234
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
find it. I ran away because I was tired of
poverty, tired of you all. I hated you be-
cause you were always whining at my elbow
not to do this and not to do that. Fine
music! We were born in an hour of hate
and terror. I am the daughter of my
father, a noble; you are the daughter of a
Copenhagen circus-rider. I am a law unto
myself, and you are the puppet of circum-
stances. Love my mother? Love any-
thing? I don't know. But I have avenged
her. I have made mankind pay for the blows
my father dealt her. And I never forgave
her for not claiming her rights when father
died. We might have grown up in comfort,
and her stupid pride kept us in rags. I did
not ask to be born; my birth was not my
will. Flesh and blood? What is life but
an accident? Selfish? Who would look
out for Berta but Berta? I am myself, no
more, no less; and the path I travel is of
my own choosing. Life! I have lived.
No law can take that away from me. You
have called me the kite. What is the kite
but cousin to the eagle? Look back. Did
I ever cringe, whine? If a blow was struck,
did I not always strike back? The fault
is you were always trying to pour me into
235
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
another mold. I had already been poured.
What you wanted of me was something like
this fool parrakeet something content to
live in a cage. Not for Berta Nordstrom!
I don't know what my end shall be, but it
will be a free end."
A wave of pity surged over Mathison.
For Hilda's sake he had contemplated let-
ting this wild, untamed thing go; and now
for the same reason he would not dare let
her go. There was a chill of fear, too.
There was no knowing how far this rising
fury might carry The Yellow Typhoon.
Never would he forget this picture. The
angel and the destroyer; the same blood,
the same physical perfections sisters ! And
beyond the blood-tie, total strangers. And
for days he had been shuttlecock to their
battledores; the one trying to save him, the
other trying to break him.
"One question," he interrupted, grimly.
Berta whirled upon him. " Ask it!"
"Had you a hand in Bob Hallo well's
death?"
"If I had I'd answer, wouldn't I! No.
But I had killed him a thousand times in
my heart. I hated him above all other men.
Men call me The Yellow Typhoon. I ac-
236
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
cept. Woe to those who stand in my way.
If I did not break Hallowell, I spoiled his
life. And I have beaten you. You and
your sanctimonious Hallowell ! Fools, I had
but to crook my finger and how beautifully
you danced! I'd have twisted you around
my finger with half a chance."
"Berta, do you ever stop to think?"
The Yellow Typhoon laughed. "A ser-
mon? Save it."
"No regret, no pity?"
" Oh, I have my regrets . . . failures. But
if you mean do I regret you and the past, a
thousand times no. You say I have returned
from the grave. You have yourself to thank
for that. I had almost forgotten you. I
promise you that I shall seek the mother."
"Take care, Berta! I am my father's
daughter, too!"
"A threat?"
Mathison began to grow alarmed. Never
had he felt the danger so near. If Hilda
suspected the game he was playing and
dropped a single hint, they were lost; he,
at any rate. The Secret Service would not
strike until he was out of this house. Such
had been his order. But if this madwoman
caught one glimmer of the truth!
237
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Come, Miss Farrington," he said.
"Very well. But always remember I
tried to save you, Berta."
"Farrington, Farrington! And I had
all but forgotten! One of the men here
told me. Farrington, the Broadway celeb-
rity, rich and famous! Oh, if I but had
the time!"
"To injure me? You will not find it,
Berta."
"No? Wait and see. To-morrow I shall
search for the mother."
"You shall never find her. I wish you
no evil. After all, you are still the child
that was always touching the stove. Take
care of yourself; and good-by forever,
sister."
In reply The Yellow Typhoon sped across
to the hall door, which opened with such
violence that the knob was shattered.
"Go! I am ordered to free you. But
for that! ... Go! Meddle no more with my
affairs, Hilda Nordstrom!"
Hilda passed into the hall. Mathison
ran ahead and unslipped the door-chain;
and a moment later they stood on the side-
walk, shadowy to each other in the blinding
snow.
238
CHAPTER XVI
QTRAIGHTWAY Mathison put his arm
O under hers and began plowing along
through the snow, which was more than
ankle-deep. As his stride was long, she
slipped and staggered to keep pace with
him. There was a comforting strength in
that arm of his.
The tension over, the encounter past, her
mind was like her feet, heavy and without
spring. A thought, entering her head,
wandered about emptily, then went away.
Her brain was like a vast cathedral, with
one or two lonely tourists exploring. This
droll imagery caused her to burst out laugh-
ing. Mathison merely tightened his grip.
She was soul-weary and body-weary.
She would have liked to lie down in the
soft inviting snow and never move again.
The drab future that lay beyond! What
might have been could not possibly be now.
So long as Berta lived Hilda must walk in
239
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
her shadow. It did not matter whether
Berta roved free or was locked up in prison.
And no doubt this man at her side, clean-
cut and honorable above his kind, was
already planning how to break the slender
thread of their acquaintance. Why not?
Seeing her, would he not always be seeing
Berta, who in his eyes was a criminal of a
dangerous type? From afar she heard his
voice.
"There's a drug-store on the next corner.
We'll order a taxi from there. Your feet
will be wet. ... I need not tell you I'm
sorry."
"That my feet are wet or that the woman
you know as The Yellow Typhoon is my
twin sister? Wliy bother? I ought to hate
her. Still, to me flesh and blood is flesh and
blood. She is dangerous and should be
punished; and yet instinct rebels at the
thought. Free, she will be havoc. I know
her of old. Her furies when she was
little were frightful because they were al-
ways calculated. For days I've been dread-
ing the encounter, dreading yet courting
it. It was inevitable. Flesh and blood!
What was God's idea? My poor mother!
She has been through so much; and now this
240
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
must strike her. She was a circus-rider in
the Copenhagen hippodrome, beautiful and
admired. My father won and married her
because it pleased his vanity. He tired of
her within a month. Then he beat her.
He was half Prussian. Tortured and dis-
carded her. Is there anything in prenatal
influence? They say not. Yet look at
Berta! My father's soul. I don't under-
stand!" brokenly.
"I am terribly sorry. An impasse; and I
don't know which way to turn. She is a
dangerous enemy, and this is war. For
your sake I want to let her go, back to
the East. For my country's sake I can-
not. She must pay the grim reckoning.
I have some influence. There will be no
publicity. I can readily promise you that.
You're a brick; and I'd cut my hand off to
save you this hurt. But I repeat, this is
war. Fortunately the affair is military,
out of the reach of civil court, beyond the
reporters. Winnowed of all chaff, the grain
is that I'm powerless. In certain directions
I have tremendous power, but only as an
agent. I cannot judge, condemn, or liber-
ate. I am desperately sorry. She is the
wife or companion of the man I believe
241
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
killed my friend. She is the woman who
gratuitously spoiled my friend's life. The
counts against her are heavy."
"I understand. You cannot break your
oath of allegiance for me; and my oath of
allegiance will not permit you. But it tears
and rends. Still, she once passed out of
my life absolutely. Perhaps my concern
is for my mother. I am numb with the
tragedy of it. Flesh and blood, but she
denied it. I tried to save her. Suppose
we let Berta's fate rest on the knees of the
gods?"
"If it is proven she had nothing to do
with HallowelTs death, there is a chance
of merely interning her for the duration of
the war."
"Hallowell! That afternoon he spoke to
me in the Botanical Gardens. He thought
I was Berta. I tried to save him, but I
reached the villa too late. I saw it, in
silhouette on the curtains! I called, rang
the bell, shook the gate. Then the lights
went out. ... I tried to save him!"
"I know. He was the finest friend a man
ever had. And somewhere up there among
the stars his spirit is at peace. John
Mathison has come through!"
242
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
" Alone, all alone, without aid from any
one. With an immeasurable power behind
you, you fought it out alone. It was splen-
did American! That envelope ! The tame-
ness of your surrender hurt. I did not un-
derstand until after we were in that house
and I saw you smile. That receipt was
only a trap, a bait; and the man you believe
killed Hallowell walked blindly into it.
No one but you could touch that envelope,
once it was in a hotel safe. Am I right?"
"The man is a prisoner in my room at
this moment. When we enter this drug-
store, it is a signal for the raiding of that
house, fore and aft. A fly couldn't escape.
We idiotic Yankees! I have him. It took
patience. But there was a guardian angel
watching over John Mathison. Had you
not warned me they would have learned the
dance I was leading them, and vanished.
They had me for sleep. I thought I was
awake, but actually I was sleep-walking."
"Then I wasn't useless, after all?"
"No." He smiled at the sky, at the stars
he couldn't see but knew were there. Day
after to-morrow!
Mathison was a one-idea man. What I
mean is, when he undertook a task he went
243
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
at it directly, whole-heartedly; there were
never any side issues.
Presently he spoke again. " There is one
favor I must ask of you, to tighten the noose
around this man's neck. Will you testify
before the authorities that you found the
blue-print in his kit-bag? Otherwise I can-
not prove that it was in his possession.
The theft of the receipt constitutes a mili-
tary crime; but the blue-print convicts him
of murder, either as principal or accessory.
I can promise you there will be no publicity.
Will you help me?"
"I have sworn to."
"Do you know that blond man's name?"
"No."
"Neither do I. Curious thing. In that
little red book there are three descriptions;
these vary only in the occupations of the
men described. All three are bulky, blond,
and ruddy. Until now I dared not be
inquisitive."
"And will you do me a favor?"
"Ask it."
"Let me see it through."
"You mean, go back with me to the
hotel?"
"Yes."
244
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Very well. And you can take Malachi
home with you."
They entered the drug-store, stamping
the snow from their feet.
To be with him just a little while longer.
. . . Because she loved him, she, Hilda
Nordstrom, the proud! Not because she
wanted to, but because it was written. The
one man in the world, and he did not care.
Friendly and interested, mystified until
now; and to-morrow he would go his way.
The daughter of a circus-rider, the sister of
The Yellow Typhoon. The Farrington was
no more; to him she would always be Hilda
Nordstrom. Her fame would not touch
him, for he was without vanity. What had
her heart been calling out through it all,
since the miracle of the violets? "Love
me! Love me!" She had thrown it forth
as a hypnotist throws the will. "Love me!
Love me!" And all the while he was busy
with this affair of the manila envelope, the
blue-print and vengeance. All he had
sought her for was to prove that there were
two women, so that he might minimize the
confusion, make no future misstep. Was
there another woman? Had he not hinted
at the supper-table that there was? And
245
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
yet, on board the Nippon Maru, hadn't he
told her there was no one? She just could
not make him out. There, on the Pacific,
his every act had been boyish, tender,
whimsical. Here, he was smiling, bronze,
inscrutable, primordial. Blood and iron.
The one man; and he was only friendly, he
didn't care. When she paused to analyze
the situation, however, the question arose:
Why should he care? As Hilda Nordstrom
The Farrington he had known her less than
three hours. It was so hard to remember
that on board the ship he had been John
Mathison to her, but she had been to him
a baffling, begoggled old lady, hugging
shadowy corners and keeping her back to
the moon.
What had happened to the world? Only
a little while gone a few months she had
been happy, gay with the gay, enjoying
life, success, the rewards of long and weary
endeavor. And up over the fair horizon had
risen The Typhoon. Berta, always Berta!
"Pardon! I did not hear," she said.
"I said I was going to do a bit of tele-
phoning. I'll round up a taxi. The boy
is making you a cup of hot chocolate.
Better drink it."
246
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Oh."
Mathison was gone for a quarter of an
hour. He came back to her smiling. The
taxi was at the curb.
" Better let me take you straight home/'
he suggested.
"You promised."
"But to-morrow . . ."
"To-morrow," she smiled, "always takes
care of itself."
"Come. After all, it will be a matter of
only a few moments. All I've got to do is
to run up to the room and give the Secret
Service men their orders. And I'll bring
down Malachi. You are sure you want
him?"
"Of course I am!" His little green
parrakeet !
Later, when they entered Peacock Alley
totally deserted at this hour he flung
his greatcoat into a chair, pinning the green
ribbon to the breast of his jacket.
"Suppose you sit here on this divan?
I sha'n't be gone more than ten minutes.
I ordered the taxi to wait."
"Go along, sailorman. And don't for-
get Malachi."
He wondered if she realized how easily
247
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that name fell from her lips. . . . Well, day
after to-morrow! He marched briskly up
to the desk.
"Take a good look at me/' he said to the
clerk; "then go to the safe and get the
manila envelope with my photographs on
it."
"Yes, sir. I was waiting for you," re-
plied the clerk, with subdued excitement.
"The man who presented the receipt is in
charge in your rooms." He returned short-
ly with the envelope.
Mathison crumpled it into a pocket. "Of
course you understand that all these mys-
terious actions have to do with the govern-
ment and that there must be absolute
secrecy on the part of the management."
"I have my orders to that effect, sir."
Mathison nodded and turned toward the
nearest elevator shaft.
In a room on the ninth floor were three
men. One sat near the window. His arms
were folded, and in his lap was a Colt.
The fire-escape was outside this window.
In a manner peculiar to Americans, he
rocked on the rear legs of his chair; and
every little while there was a slight thud
248
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
as the chair-back hit the wall or the fore-
legs hit the floor. The second man sat
with his back toward the bathroom. From
this point of vantage he could watch both
the entrance to the room and the man on
the bed. He evinced signs of boredom, as
did the face of his companion. He was
toying with an automatic. He was sunk
in his chair, his legs resting on the heels of
his shoes.
The prisoner, his hands clasped behind
his head, seemed particularly interested in
a pattern on the ceiling; but in reality he
was counting the thuds of the Secret Ser-
vice operative's chair; and out of this sound
developed a daring campaign for liberty.
Because he had surrendered docilely, with-
out a sign of protest or struggle, he was con-
fident he had by this time broken a wedge
into the vigilance of his captors. He was
a big man, blond, but his cheeks were no
longer ruddy.
On a stand by the radiator Malachi oc-
casionally shifted his weight from one foot
to the other. He didn't love anybody, and
he never was going to love anybody again.
His nose or rather his beak was thor-
oughly out of joint with the world. Rooms
17 249
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that swung high and swung low; rooms that
rattled and banged, the red walls of which
hurt his eyes; and rooms with glaring lights.
And always, just as he believed his troubles
over, up went the cotton bag and he was
off to other surprises. No; he was never
going to love anybody again.
The man near the bathroom inspected
his watch. ''He ought to be along now."
The man on the bed sat up. Slowly he
swung his legs to the floor. He rubbed his
palms together, and the links between the
manacles clinked slightly. He stood up.
"May I go to the bathroom?"
The man in the chair near the bathroom
nodded. There was no exit from the
bathroom.
"Leave the door open," he advised.
Alone, he would have risen and faced the
bathroom door. But across the room was
his companion, who, from where he sat,
could see into the bathroom obliquely.
Slowly the prisoner passed the chair. He
was the picture of dejection. With unbe-
lievable swiftness in a man so big he turned
and threw his arms over the Secret Service
man's head, bringing the manacle chain
against his throat, murderously, all but
250
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
garroting him. The automatic had scarcely
touched the floor before the blond man,
releasing his victim and stooping behind
the chair, recovered it.
Now comes the point upon which his
endeavor had been based. When you lean
back in a chair, to recover necessitates a
sharp forward tilt. Sometimes you get
all the way down and sometimes you
have to make a second effort. So it hap-
pened to the operative by the window,
dumfounded by the daring and sudden-
ness of the attack. As he threw himself
forward the second time violently the auto-
matic slipped. He caught it, but not quick
enough.
"Drop it! For I shall shoot to kill. Get
up. Now kick it in my direction. Very
good." These words were uttered with
dispassionate coolness.
The victim of the garroting was writhing
and coughing on the floor. He would be
out of it for several minutes. There was
only one idea in his head to get air through
his tortured throat.
To the other operative the blond man
said: "I am a desperate man and I promise
to kill you if you do not obey me absolutely.
251
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Unless I go forth free I might as well go
forth dead. It is my life against yours.
Walk toward me with your hands up."
The Secret Service operative had heard
voices like this before, and he wanted
to live. Moreover, he knew that every
exit would be covered until the patrol ar-
rived, if it were not already at the curb.
At the utmost the blond devil's victory
would be short-lived.
"You win," he said, quietly, stepping
forward.
"Face the other way."
The operative obeyed. The manacled
hands rose above the unprotected head
and the gun-butt came crashing down. The
operative slumped to the floor. The blond
man's subsequent actions bespoke his thor-
oughness in handling this kind of an affair.
He sought the handkerchiefs, wet them,
and tied the operatives' hands behind their
backs. Few fabrics are tougher than wet
linen. The man he had hit was either dead
or insensible; so he paid no more attention
to this unfortunate. His interest was in the
operative who was now slowly getting air
into his lungs. The blond man threw him
on his face, sat on him, then rifled the pock-
252
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ets for the manacle key. He found it and
freed his wrists. He ran to the bathroom
again and returned with a wet towel which
he wound about the half-strangled man's
head. Next he calmly pocketed his be-
longings which lay on the bureau-top.
He was reasonably certain that he could
not escape by any of the hotel entrances.
There was only one chance. A window
on the first floor, from which he would have
to risk a drop of twelve or fourteen feet to
the sidewalk.
Malachi was climbing up to his swing
and clambering down to his perch.
The blond man, the automatic ready,
opened the door . . . and Mathison stepped
in! The advantage of surprise was in this
instance on Mathison's side. A fighting-
man of the first order, he struck first. He
brought his fist down hammer-wise upon
the pistol, at the same time sending the toe
of his boot to the enemy's knee-cap. In-
stinctive actions, but both blows went
home. The blond man was forced to give
back in order to set himself.
There began, then, in that small room,
one of those contests which the Blind Poet
loved to recount and which we nowadays
253
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
call Homeric. Mathison was lighter than
his opponent by thirty pounds, but he gave
battle with a singing heart. This was as
it should be, man to man. No tedious
affair of the courts; cold, formal justice.
Hot blood and bare hands! . . . An eye for
an eye, a tooth for a tooth !
The blond man, as he looked into Mathi-
son's eyes, sensed that he was about to
fight for his life; thus he became endowed
with a frenzy which doubled his strength.
His one blind endeavor was to get his
gorilla arms around this Yankee swine
who had tricked and beaten him. He
lunged, head down. Mathison jabbed him,
and with lightning speed shut the door with
a backward kick.
He met the blond man at every point;
boxed him, used his boots, employed the
science of the Jap wrestler, threw obstacles,
laughed, taunted sailor fashion; in fact,
fought with the primordial savagery of the
Stone Age, scorning the niceties of sportsman-
ship. He knew what his antagonist was a
Prussian, or one who had been Prussianized.
And with devilish cunning and foresight he
carried the Prussian idea to this blond
giant. ... To kill him with his bare hands!
254
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The blond man's desperate swings landed
frequently; for with his eye upon a single
point, Mathison was often compelled to
expose his face. That throat! To reach it
with that Japanese side-cut, a blow that
saps and blinds.
Once the enemy succeeded in gripping
Mathison's jacket where its fastenings met:
and Mathison, wrenching back, left half
the front of his smart jacket in the eager
hand.
Bloody, an eye half closed, his lips puffed
and bleeding but his teeth showing soundly
through the grotesque smile a gash across
his forehead, Mathison continued to play
for the throat. Queer thing about such
contests: there isn't any pain until it is
over.
A dozen times they stumbled over the
operatives on the floor. The one with the
towel around his head was now alive and
tugging powerfully at the wet linen bind-
ing his wrists. Finally he managed to get
to his feet, only to be hurled against the
wall.
The inconvenience of these obstacles,
animate and inanimate, reacted against
Mathison as often as it did against his
255
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
enemy; and one time Mathison was borne
back against the foot -rail of the bed.
But a violent thrust of his knee extricated
him.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Mathison
was offered his opening. The operative,
who was still blinded by the wet towel,
rose again and staggered about. He struck
against the blond man's shoulder, and as
the latter thrust him aside Mathison struck.
Not an honorable blow, this cut at the
throat; not the sort white men use in fisti-
cuffs. But I repeat, these two were bent
on killing each other.
When you touch a hot coal your hand
jerks back. It is reflex action purely; the
conscious brain has nothing to do with it.
So it is with the blow on the Adam's apple.
The hands fly to the throat because they
must.
Mathison did not pause to note the effect
of the stroke. He knew that it had gone
home. He had been badly punished, but
he was still fighting strong. The years of
clean living, of unsapped vitality, were
paying dividends to-night. He sent in a
smothering hail of blows, with all the power
he had left to put behind them.
256
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
It was now that the other man began to
realize that he was no longer interested in kill-
ing Mathison, that he sought only to get
away from this force and fury which were
superior to his own. He looked about
desperately for a corner to turn; but there
wasn't any. Back he went, back until his
legs struck the edge of the bed. Even as
he wavered Mathison leaped, bore his man
down, knelt on his ribs and dug his fingers
into the bull-like neck. No doubt Mathi-
son would have throttled him. An eye for
an eye, a tooth for a tooth. But a singular
event stayed his hands.
During all this surging to and fro, this
battering and scuffling, Malachi's fear and
agitation had grown to the point where he
was compelled to express his disapproval
in the only way he knew by sounds,
hoarse, raucous sounds, human words.
"Mat! . . . Chota Malachil . . . You lubber,
where's my tobacco? . . . Mat! . . . Lysgaard!
... To hell with the Ki! ... Mathison,
Hallowell and Company, and be damned
to you! . . . Mat! . . . Lysgaard!"
Slowly Mathison drew back. The berser-
ker lust to kill evaporated, leaving him cold
and sick. The revelation that the name of
257
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the murderer was Lysgaard was insignifi-
cant beside the fact that Hallowell had
reached out from Beyond and saved his friend
from carrying blood-guilty hands to Hilda
Nordstrom, who waited down-stairs!
CHAPTER XVII
MEANTIME the jar of the battle had
not passed unnoticed. The guests in
the rooms adjoining and below had been
telephoning the office. The clerk, aware
that there were Secret Service operatives at
all exits, hastily summoned them. And
four plunged into Mathison's room just as
he stepped away from the bed.
"It's all over, gentlemen," he said,
thickly. "The man on the bed is wanted
on two accounts theft of naval plans and
murder. He is Karl Lysgaard. In 1916,
to cover his espionage endeavors, he became
a naturalized citizen. Ostensibly he is
Danish; but he was born in Holtenau, near
enough to the Kiel Canal to make him a
first-class Prussian. Take him to the Tombs,
and keep your eye on him while taking him
there. I will appear against him in the
morning. The woman known as The Yellow
Typhoon . . ."
259
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Has vanished," whispered one of the
operatives.
"Escaped?"
"Like smoke! Telephone message came
while you were up here. But she won't go
far. Already all exits are being watched. No
trains, no ships; and she will not be able to
hide long in New York. Some scrap you
must have had here. Your uniform's a
wreck. Better wash up."
Mathison staggered into the bathroom,
now mindful of his injuries. He was sure
that one or more of his ribs were broken.
Every beat of his heart was accompanied
by a stab either in his head or in his torso.
The floor wavered like sand in the heat;
and he* was none too certain about the
walls.
Escaped! The Yellow Typhoon had
slipped through that web ! He did not know
whether he was glad or sorry. Not one man
in a thousand would have broken through
that alert cordon; and yet this woman had
done it. The pity of it! Brave and fear-
less and beautiful . . . and absolutely lawless.
He could not stir up a bit of hatred. She
had broken Bob HallowelTs heart, and yet
John Mathison could only admire her
260
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
strength and cunning. The admiration a
brave man always pays a fearless antagonist.
Somehow he knew that she would be free
for a long while. But how would she use
this furtive freedom? Seek to injure Hilda,
himself? Like as not. But he had in mind
a solution for this problem. It would de-
pend, though, upon the woman waiting
down-stairs.
Entering the room again, he confronted
the man he had outthought and outfought.
He was dizzy, but he could navigate alone.
The blond man had to be propped between
two operatives. He was in a bad way.
Mathison produced the manila envelope.
"Observe those photographs? That is
why you did not succeed. We idiotic
Yankees! They will hang you by the neck,
Lysgaard. What! You believed I would
risk carrying HallowelTs specifications in
an ordinary manila envelope, depositing it
when I stopped at a hotel, letting every-
body know that I was carrying an important
document? Your method, perhaps, but not
mine. And the irony of it is the prints
were always within easy reach of your hand.
This manila envelope was merely a noose,
and you drew it yourself. It is a forerun-
261
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
ner of what your nation will receive at the
hands of mine."
Mathison ripped open the envelope and
displayed the contents a dozen sheets of
heavy blank paper.
"You will never see your woman again,
Lysgaard. I had no evidence. I com-
pelled you to furnish it. A man-hunt and
you never suspected. Take him away,
gentlemen; and thanks for your assistance."
Down-stairs Hilda waited, with growing
wonder and anxiety. When she finally saw
Lysgaard lurch out of the elevator, sup-
ported, her anxiety became terror. What
had happened? Where was Mathison? She
wanted to rush forward and ask questions,
but she dared not. The value of her ser-
vices would always depend upon the fact
that her activities were practically un-
known. So she sat perfectly quiet and
watched the remarkable procession file past
and vanish round the corner of the corridor.
The sight of the blond beast naturally
brought back the thought of Berta. She,
too, was now a prisoner. Prison. A cell
with bars and filtered sunshine, intermi-
nable monotony and maddening thoughts.
262
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
It was horrible. And she, Hilda, could
do nothing. Berta merited whatever pun-
ishment an outraged nation might see fit
to visit upon her. Flesh and blood or was
there something in the psychology of double-
birth? Was there really an invisible con-
necting link? Yet, if so, why had she not
felt that Berta was alive? Why had she
shed tears over the poor, unrecognizable
thing in Berta's clothes she and the mother
had buried eight years ago? If only some-
thing occult had warned her! The mother
might have borne up under such a blow
the return of the wayward. But to her
Berta was dead; and a return under the
present tragic circumstances would without
doubt result in a death shock. Ah, if
Berta had come back a penitent, the news
might have been broken gradually. But
a lawless Berta, predatory, vengeful . . .!
And to-morrow night Norma Farrington
would romp across the stage, now tender,
now whimsical; now making her audience
laugh, now bringing them to the verge of
tears. And all the while Hilda Nordstrom's
heart would be breaking. She would com-
plete the run because her word had never
been broken. She could not possibly find
263
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
it in her thoughts to be disloyal to loyal
Sam Rubin.
Love! It was not enough that Berta
should return to life. She, Hilda, must
give her heart unasked to a man who ap-
peared to be quite satisfied with friendship.
She hadn't even fought against it. Non-
resistant, she had permitted this crowning
folly to creep into her heart. She had for-
gotten that to him Mrs. Chester was an old
woman, and that he had sought her society
because he was just humanly lonesome.
She hadn't had her chance. With the
physical attributes of a Venus and the
mental attainments of an Aspasia, a woman
might not win the heart of a man in three
short hours. Love at first sight! She
trembled. He had used that subject mere-
ly to pass the time and to keep the conver-
sation away from dangerous channels. She
was very unhappy.
She heard the elevator door rattle in the
groove. Mathison stepped forth. Malachi's
cage bobbed against a leg. He paused a
moment (truthfully, to get his sea-legs, for
he was still groggy) and brushed his fore-
head with his free hand. The movement
left a bloody smear.
264
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
She flew to him and cried, in passionate
anger, "The beast has hurt you!"
1 ' Banged me up a bit. But my teeth are all
sound, and I still can bite. He got loose
somehow, and . . . well, I went berserker.
I'm a sight! Malachi did a fine thing to-
night. I was killing that man, when Mala-
chi spoke up. I'll see you home."
"Indeed you shall . . . straight up to my
apartment, where I can take care of those
cuts and bruises."
"At this hour?" tingling.
"What matters the hour? Wouldn't you
prefer me to the hotel physician?" raising
the veil and letting him look into her eyes,
which were full of sapphire lights.
"All right. You may do with me as you
please."
Day after to-morrow was now very far
away. At no time in his life had he craved
so poignantly for the touch of a woman's
hand. To be ministered to, coddled, made
of; a memory to take away with him to
the high seas, from which he might never
return.
She ran back for his greatcoat, held it for
him and noted the grimace as he stretched
his arms backward for the sleeves.
18 265
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"What is it?"
"Ribs, head, and shoulder; all in the
sick-bay. Lord, but I'm a wreck!"
She picked up the cage and grasped his
sleeve. Her heart sang. For an hour or
two; to use all her arts in making the epi-
sode unforgetable to this man. To mother
and coddle him; to run her eager fingers
through his fine hair. An hour or two, all,
all her own!
In the taxi he told her briefly what had
happened and brought the Odyssey to an
end by disclosing the fact that Berta had
escaped the net.
"But don't worry. I've an idea she'll
be too busy to trouble you. She's keen.
By now she must understand that the game
is up. She will be concerned with little
else besides her efforts to get clear of New
York. Ten to one, she'll strike for the
Orient. I'm sorry. Not that she escaped,
but that she was able to hurt you. We're
all riddles, aren't we?"
"Berta free? ... I'm glad. I can't help
it. It may be the turning-point. In all
these years she has never met with any
serious defeat. Who knows? For if she
is her father's daughter, she is also her
260
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
mother's. God bring her vision to see
things clearly! That blond beast's evil
influence removed, who knows?"
In the cozy living-room of the apartment
a fire burned low. Hilda threw on a log,
then helped him off with his coat. As a
matter of fact he really had to be helped.
Obsessed with the idea of getting his hands
on the man Lysgaard's throat, he had laid
himself open to many terrible blows. He was
going to be very sore and lame to-morrow.
She swung the willow lounge parallel to
the fire and forced him to lie down.
"Back in a moment!" she said, flying
away.
He lay back and closed his sound eye;
the other was already closed. And as he
lay there, awaiting her return, the Idea
came. He could never win this glorious
creature by simply telling her he loved her.
He would have to take her by storm, carry
her off her feet and he was only a molly-
coddle among the women. Still, he knew
what he knew. Presently he smiled; at
least it was meant for a smile. How the
deuce would he be able to kiss her when the
time came, with his lips puffed and bleeding?
The glory of her!
267
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Obliquely he could see Malachi. "The
little son-of-a-gun ! And he hasn't the least
idea that he saved his master from being
as beastly as the Hun. . . . Close shave! . . .
Bob's voice, calling out the name of the
man who had killed him, like that! ... I'll
be a trig-looking individual when I strike
Washington to-morrow!" ruefully.
Hilda returned with basin, alcohol, lint,
bandages, and salves. And he let her have
her way with him. After she had bandaged
the gash on his forehead and his raw knuc-
kles, she wet her finger-tips with alcohol and
ran them back and forth through his hair.
Not since his mother's death had this
happened; and never had he experienced
such a thrill. He longed to seize the hand
and kiss it, but he conquered the desire.
By and by he spoke. "The blue-prints,
with No. 9, are in the hollow under Malachi 's
basin. They are in a rubber sack such as
you roll up slickers in. I'll take them out
when I go. Be sure you talk a little to him
every day. He likes it. He's a gossip. Rice
and fruits and nuts ; he's frugal. It will buck
me up to know that he is in good hands."
"The funny little green bird! I'll take
care of him until you come back."
208
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"That's odd. Somehow I know I'm
coming back. . . . Where's this man Rubin
live?"
" Rubin? He has an apartment near
by." Rubin? What had Rubin to do
with this hour, resentfully!
"What's a successful week amount to?"
"We'll probably draw from ten to twelve
thousand." What in the world was the
meaning of such irrelevant questions?
"About thirty thousand in two weeks,"
nrminatingly. "I am, even in these days,
a comparatively rich man. Lots of ready
money, bonds, and stock. It's been piling
up for years. And now I'm glad it has."
She understood. He had been struck a
dangerous blow on the head, and his mind
was wandering. She patted his hand re-
assuringly.
He went on. "The old home which I
haven't seen in nearly ten years is up-state,
on the edge of the North Woods. The man
who farms it keeps up the house. A day's
work would make it habitable. Just now
it must be wonderful. Skating and snow-
shoeing. Lord! how I've hungered for the
snow! ... I wonder if that extension 'phone
will reach over here?"
269
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Yes." Poor boy! Did he expect to get
his farmer on long-distance at this hour?
"Splendid! Now suppose you bring it
over?"
She did so. She knelt beside the lounge
and held out the telephone.
"No. You're going to start it. Call
up Rubin. He'll be asleep; but what I've
got to say will wake him up."
"What in the world . . ."
"Call him up! I'm an invalid and must
be humored."
For a moment her fingers seemed all
thumbs. She succeeded in calling the num-
ber. There came a long wait. She stole a
glance at Mathison. He might have been
asleep, for all the interest he evinced in this
extraordinary proceeding. What could he
want of Rubin?
"Hello! It is you, Sam? This is Hilda.
. . . No, no! nobody's dead. . . . There's a
gentleman here. . . . Oh, it's perfectly
proper. . . . He wants to speak to you. ... I
don't know. ... He is not a dub. . . . Yes;
the flowers and the note . . . you knew it!
What do you mean? . . . All right."
She turned to Mathison. "I have him."
Mathison managed to lift himself to a
270
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
more comfortable angle. " This Mr. Rubin?
Ah! ... I'll break it gently. Hilda and I are
going to be married in the morning. . . . Keep
your hair on! ... Then we are going to
Washington. On our return we are going
to spend the honeymoon at my home in
the North Woods. . . . Contract? What the
deuce is that to me? . . . No; you can't talk
to her until I'm through. . . . Contract! . . .
Listen to me. You will announce that she
is ill. She will be if she goes on to-morrow
night, after all she's been through. . . . Hang
it! She and I have a right to two weeks of
happiness. To you it's business; to me it's
love. I will give you fifty thousand dollars
in cold, hard cash for these two weeks,
which is about twenty thousand more than
you would ordinarily make. I'll give my
permission to make a feature story out of it.
And if I know anything about human
nature, on her return you'll pack the house
all summer. If you refuse my offer, not
a bally copper cent ! I'll break her contract
for her and you may sue from Maine to
Oregon. . . . What's that? . . . WeU, by
George, that's handsome! I thought you
were a good sport. Buy out the house for
exactly what it would be worth. Come
271
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
around in the morning and be best man!
Oh, about nine-thirty. Good night!"
Mathison turned to the stupefied Hilda.
There was a short tableau; then she laid
her head on the arm of the lounge and cried
softly.
"Girl, I can do only one thing well at a
time. I couldn't tell you verbally I loved
you until I'd cleared the deck. . . . Sounds !
Remember? When you came in through
that window it was your voice, but I
couldn't place it then. I opened that red
book and one of Malachi's feathers dropped
out. That recalled the old lady who called
me Boy. I wanted to write something,
and couldn't find my pen. It was in my cits.
And then I found that photograph of you.
That's how I learned there were two of you.
When you talked on the stage to-night I
shut my eyes. Then I knew. That's how
I came to laugh out loud. Sheer joy!
Fourteen years! You've got to love me.
You've got to marry me. God is just. He
won't deny me now. Didn't you tell
me I'd find Her? . . . Sounds! That's what
I meant your voice. I didn't know why I
came to you every morning on board the
Nippon Mara, but my heart did. My eyes
72
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
saw only a queer, whimsical old lady; but
my heart saw youth and beauty and love.
Will you marry me?"
A nod.
"You are going to try to love me?"
"No!"
"What?"
"You . . . you can't go to do something
when you already do!"
"Wabbly rhetoric, but I understand! . . .
Hilda, I love you with all my soul! Love
you, love you! I've been saying in my
heart all night : ' Love me ! Love me !' "
"So have I! ... But I'll never forgive
you!"
"For what?"
"You told Rubin before you told me!"
"Lord! Lord! I've been telling you all
night with my eyes that I loved you." He
brushed her shining hair with burning lips.
He couldn't even put his arms around her!
"Now there's just one thing I've got to
hear to make this the most perfect hour in
my life." He raised her head. There was
a violent stab in his side, but he considered
it negligible in this supreme moment. "Say
it!"
"Boy!" she whispered.
273
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The way she had always dreamed of be-
ing loved. Berserker love! To be swept
off her feet and carried away to an enchant-
ed palace! That little magic green feather!
Malachi! She pressed her cheek against
this wonderful lover's and her hand instinc-
tively found his.
"Mat, you lubber!" grumbled Malachi,
from the rosy hearth.
CHAPTER XVIII
Mathison estate was in the foot-
1 hills of the Adirondacks. There were
farmlands, pulp-mills, forests, and streams.
At the northern extremity of the estate
there was a small lake. The manor proper
stood on the south shore of this lake, four
miles from the village and the railway
station. It was a lonely habitation in the
winter.
The house was of limestone, beautifully
weathered, and was dated 1812. Here
Mathison had been bom; here he had spent
his early youth. With the father almost
constantly at sea, the mother had preferred
the quiet of the woods to the noise and bluster
of New York.
Hilda went into ecstasies over chairs and
sofas that had become antique in these very
rooms. She saw the mother's hand every-
where, the quiet artistry of a hand guided
by a noble mind. Hilda romped about the
275
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
rooms with the eager curiosity of a child;
and it might be truthfully added that
Mathison romped with her. They were so
completely in love that they saw beauty in
everything, in the hard, brilliant sunsets,
in the Northern Lights, in the yellow dawns.
Every day they skated or snow-shoed; and
there was always a roaring chestnut fire to
greet them.
And yet there were shadows, deep and
somber shadows, that fell across the sun-
shine of their happiness. They never said
anything about these shadows to each
other; but always during the hour that
comes before candles the shadows pressed
in and down. Hilda could not shut out the
thought of Berta. Where was she, what
was she doing? Berta might deny the
blood, but Hilda could not. Berta was
her twin. During this twilight hour she
saw this beautiful counterpart of herself
moving furtively, flying by night, hiding by
day, alone, alone; perhaps penniless and
hungry. When the thought of the way-
ward one became too strong Hilda sought
the piano, which she played exquisitely.
Mathison's shadow lay upon him per-
petually, but more keenly when he and
27
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Hilda sat before the fire, waiting for the
lights. The man Lysgaard had escaped.
Free! Beaten and to all appearances broken,
he had escaped on the way to the Tombs.
A forced pause before a fire in a chemical
establishment had opened the way for him.
The crowd, the noise and confusion, and
the insatiable curiosity and over-confidence
of his captors had given him his chance.
The strength of the rogue, after that beat-
ing! They had left one man in the patrol
with him, and Lysgaard had suddenly
dashed his manacled hands into the man's
face and then choked him into insensibility.
He had coolly taken the operative's hat
and overcoat. The latter he had wrapped
across his shoulders, holding it together
from the inside. He had then stepped into
the seething crowd and vanished completely.
Search for him had been in vain. He had
probably known where to find a haven.
The real menace in his being at large lay in
the fact that undoubtedly he did not know
that Berta was a twin. He would have
means of finding what had become of John
Mathison. He would learn that a woman
had accompanied his enemy. A trifling
description of that woman would be enough.
77
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
Being a Prussian, there would be only one
idea in Lysgaard's head Berta had run
away with the man who had beaten him.
Vengeance, before they found him and
dropped the noose over his head.
There was a third shadow and they
shared this mutually if silently Mathison's
inevitable departure for English waters.
"John," she said, one afternoon, "I'm so
happy that it hurts."
He laughed and swung her into his arms,
which never ceased to be hungry for her;
and there was always a sharp little stab
when he let her go. The hour was fast
approaching when he would have to let her
go, perhaps forever. . . .
" Glorious up here, isn't it?"
" But why do you bar the windows and
doors so carefully at night? There can't
be any burglars in this wilderness, at least
not in the winter."
'You never can tell. Sometimes there
are mighty high winds around these dig-
gings. You heard how the windows rattled
last night." Mathison reached for his cup
of tea. So she had noticed?
"How your mother must have loved this
place!"
278
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"What makes you think that?"
"Why, it fairly breathes of love; the
beauty of all the furnishings and the way
they are arranged. What fun it must have
been and you toddling around after her!
Come; I want to show you something."
She led over to a corner, and there in a heap
were rows of battered leaden soldiers,
twisted leaden swords, and forts of wood.
"War, battle," went on Hilda, soberly;
"even as little children. What has hap-
pened to the souls of men, that from gener-
ation to generation the male child's toys
must be these? Must women always suffer
to see these things about? I found them
in the garret."
'Instinct, little old lady. From the day
one man has had to protect himself and his
woman, bloodily. We are still doing it, on
a more terrible scale than ever. Odd,
I haven't laid eyes on these in twenty
years."
"How often your mother must have
watched you there on the floor before the
fire, playing at war, and your father facing
death at sea. But oh, lover, lover!" She
caught him fiercely to her. "In so short
a time! I haven't said anything, for I did
279
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
not want to mar your happiness. But it is
hurting so ! Dear God. bring him back to
me!"
"Honey, I'll come back. There isn't a
shell or a U-boat in the world with my name
on it. I know it. I hate to have you re-
turn to the stage, and yet it will be the best
thing. You'll be busy. Idleness never
bucks up a person's courage."
"Hark!" She stepped back from him
swiftly. "I hear sleigh-bells." She stif-
fened. Sleigh-bells and yellow envelopes,
for she knew that Mathison had left orders
at the station to send out telegrams imme-
diately they were received. There was no
telephone.
"The village grocer, maybe," suggested
Mathison, himself receiving a shock at the
sound of the bells.
"No; he always drives out before noon."
Hilda ran to the window to peer out, but
it was too dark for her to see anything dis-
tinctly.
As for Mathison, he shifted his automatic
to the right side -pocket of his jacket.
Merely precautionary; for the man he was
expecting would not approach the front
door with such boldness. Yet the man was
280
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
infernally clever in some ways. He was
likely to do the unexpected. Of course,
there was always a chance that Lysgaard
might try to put to sea and put over his
hour of vengeance until later. There was
an odd trait in Mathison's character. He
was always suspicious when events ran
along too smoothly. His very happiness
was almost a warning. He had often
thought of having a Secret Service man
come up and watch the four trains that
passed daily; but, being a man of red blood,
he hated the idea. If Lysgaard succeeded
in getting through the cordon, he would try
to find John Mathison. Backed as he was
by a powerful secret organization, and no
doubt having John Mathison's dossier in his
pocket or in his memory, he would not have
much difficulty in locating the dove-cote.
"Why, it's a woman!" cried Hilda.
"A woman? All right. You stay here
and I'll go to the door."
He reached the door just as the bell rang.
The visitor entered without a word and
raised a thick veil.
"Well, brother-in-law!" mockingly.
"Berta?" came a startled voice from the
doorway leading to the living-room.
19 281
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"Yes, dear sister, Berta the ghost who
wants to return to her tomb and can't find
the way. I smell tea. I'd like a cup."
Berta passed into the living-room and
stopped before the burning logs, stretching
out her hands. The sable coat, once so
magnificent, was matted and torn, the hat
bedraggled, the shoes water-soaked and
cracked; but the fire in Berta's eyes and the
beauty of her face were still imdimmed.
What a woman! thought Mathison, thrilled
in spite of his vague terror.
Hilda, however, saw only the hunted
woman, the desperation, the cold, the hun-
ger. A sign, and she would have opened
her arms. But Berta was still The Yellow
Typhoon, harassed but unconquered. She
tossed her hat and coat upon a chair and
helped herself to a cup of tea. There was
evil mischief in her smile. After she had
drunk the tea. she selected a cigarette and
lighted it.
"Ah, that is good! 1 haven't had a
decent cigarette in four days. The driver
thought I was you, Hilda. What a God-
forsaken hole! But it was not so hard to
find. In your dossier I read it while we
were entering New York it was recorded
282
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
that you were born here, that it was the only
home you had. Where would two senti-
mental fools like you two come for their
honeymoon? The North is in the blood
of both of you. A ghost, Hilda; and with
a wave of your hand my e vanishment. I
want a passport to Denmark. It will not
be wise to refuse me. I haven't tried to
see the mother. We are dead to each
other; let it be so. But there are other
ways by which I can twist your heart, my
beautiful Norma."
"Don't mind about me, John. You can-
not hurt me, Berta."
"I can try. Arrest me and see what will
come of it. You two have sent to his death
the only man I ever cared for."
"He was a murderer!" cried Hilda.
' ' No ; it was war. What he did was in the
interest of Germany, and that absolves him."
"You are not a Prussian ; you are a Dane."
"My sympathies are with Prussia; and
that is enough for me. I am the daughter
of a noble. I did not come here to discuss
the war. I came to demand help."
Mathison sighed with relief. The woman
did not know that her man was at large.
He played a card in the dark.
283
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
"I purpose to give you up to the authori-
ties at once/'he said, coldly.
Berta laughed. "Try it. Do you think
me such a fool as to come unarmed?"
"And how might you be armed?"
"Ask my sister."
"She is right, John. This would kill my
mother. But if we secure a passport, what
is your bond?"
"The word of Berta Nordstrom. I never
broke that when once I gave it. Back there
in New York you spoke of the tomb. All I
want is to return to it. Let me get to Den-
mark, and I shall never bother either of you
again."
Mathison began pacing, his hands behind
his back, his chin down. Berta eyed him
with cynical amusement, letting the ciga-
rette smoke drift up her nostrils. By and
by she tossed the cigarette into the fire.
"If I make threats, it is because I have
to. I am tired. Wait!" She made a
passionate gesture. "This is no sign of
weakness. I shall hate you both as long
as I live. You have forced me to walk
alone. I don't want to go on fighting any
more. I want peace and quiet. I shall
find it where I was born. Get me a pass-
284
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
port and I shall vanish. I have plenty of
money. Much of it is in the banks in
Copenhagen. I had always planned to re-
turn there some day. I can establish
proofs of my identity and my right to the
inheritance our mother denied us. Until
the passport arrives I must abide here,
however distasteful it may be to you.
Do you believe it will be pleasant for me?
Your food will be wormwood, your water
lees, and your bed will burn me. Odd that
I should wish to go on, that I should care
to live. I shaVt disturb your cooing.
Your maid, who doubtless knows by this
time that there are two of us, can bring me
food. I was a fool not to have told him
that there were two of us; and he may go
to his death believing that I betrayed him.
But I have written a letter to Manila ex-
plaining. Hate you? With every drop of
blood in me! But get me the passport,
and I promise to leave you both in peace."
"Very well," said Mathison, facing her;
"you shall have it. But for Hilda, I should
not stir a hand. You are an alien enemy.
You are dangerous and merciless. You
have no mercy for your sister, who tried to
save you; and the word 'mother' means
885
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
nothing to you. You ruined or tried to
the dearest friend I had. And the man of
your choice murdered him in cold blood.
There is a black score against you. But
because I love your sister beyond ordinary
man's love, I am going to let you go."
"Because you are afraid of me," tran-
quilly.
" Frankly because I am afraid of you."
"I hate you. If I had the time and op-
portunity I would do you all the evil I
could. You defeated me. But for all that,
you are a man; and I know men. Hilda,
will you know how to keep him?"
"Yes!"
"After all, you are not my sister for noth-
ing. Show me to my room. Have your
maid bring me up something to eat. I am
starved. It was such a place to find.
Cooing doves, in a bleak cage like this!"
The chamber assigned to her was directly
over the living-room. After dinner that
night they heard her walking, walking, walk-
ing. The Snow-leopard, thought Mathison;
and because she was the twin of the noble
woman whose hand was locked in his he
would have to cheat his government, com-
mit his first dishonorable deed! For he
286
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
would have to lie and cheat to secure a pass-
port for Berta Nordstrom.
"John!"
"No. I shouldn't go to her, honey.
Honestly, I can't help it, but I do not trust
her. I'm afraid of her. The blood no
longer links you. Forget that part of it.
She's forgotten it."
"Will there be trouble in getting her a
passport?"
"The trouble is nothing. I've got to lie
and cheat."
"We were so happy! My sister, my own
flesh and blood! I just can't understand
it!"
"No more can I. But the fact remains
that she is still The Yellow Typhoon. And
God send she leaves no wreckage here when
she passes. But what a woman!"
"That is it. If we could only save her,
make her see!"
Mathison stared at the ceiling and shook
his head. The light thud of shoes contin-
ued. He walked over to the stand at the
side of the fireplace and eyed Malachi, who
was dozing.
"What a jogging I've given the poor
little beggar! Malachi?"
287
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
The little green bird opened one eye
belligerently, and the feathers at the back
of his neck ruffled.
" John, why should she tramp like that?"
"Go to her, honey, if you wish."
But Hilda's knock on the door was not
answered.
Berta remained in her room all the fol-
lowing day. The maid reported to her
mistress that the unwelcome guest spoke
no words, not even a "thank you." She
no longer walked the floor, however.
About eight o'clock that night she came
unexpectedly into the living-room. Mathi-
son was putting on a fresh log. Hilda was
in the music-room, playing Rachmaninoff's
surging " Prelude."
"I was cold," said Berta, unemotionally.
Mathison drew up a chair for her, rather
clumsily. She sent him a wry little smile
as she sat down, spreading her fingers.
After a while she raised her head attentively.
She was listening to the music. She held
this attitude for several minutes, then
propped her elbows on her knees and rested
her chin in her palms. Hilda played on,
Chopin, Grieg, Rubinstein. Stonily Berta
stared into the fire.
288
"She plays well ... in the dark, too."
"She does all things well," said the lover.
"You are fond of something, then?"
"Music? Yes. I am fond of many things;
but I except human beings. You are trying
to solve the riddle? Don't waste your time.
I'm a riddle to myself. But for Hilda I
should have beaten you. Do you know, if
Hallowell had been weak I should have
gone out to your villa. I wonder what
would have happened?"
"He would have been alive this day," an-
swered Mathison, grimly; "for we both of us
would have vacated the premises. Typhoon.
They named you well. And yet!"
"Ah, and yet?" Berta looked up.
"Why not become a friend instead of an
enemy? You say you want peace and
quiet after all this stormy life. Why not
melt a little? I know my wife. She would
take you in her arms with half a chance."
"Thanks. Oh, I am not ironic. I mean
it. But it is impossible. I cannot change
my nature. There is too much behind me.
I chose the road I came by. Regret? Re-
morse? No. To you I am bad; to myself,
I am only free. . . . Tell her to play that
Russian thing again. . . . No; I must go my
89
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
chosen way. I am like your parrakeet.
Sometimes I can be forced to do things,
but always I am untamable. Get me that
passport and I will vanish. I have never
known what it is to be sorry. The faculty
isn't in me. I am an outcast. I prefer it.
But I am notahypocrite. I did not come here
to whine; I came to demand. But I'll
soften that. Get me out of this country,
which I despise, and I'll thank you. I was
not implicated in the killing of your friend.
Besides, it was war."
Mathison shook his head. A pagan; that
was it. He stooped to stir a log and got a
glimpse of her eyes. They were dry and
hard. A passport, or was she up to some
deadly mischief? However quickly he
might obtain a passport, he knew it would
not arrive until after he himself had put to
sea. Berta free and Hilda alone? He
leaned against the mantel, wondering what
the end would be.
There were French doors on the south
side of the living-room. To the north were
the original deep-set windows with broad
seats and heavy shutters. Mathison locked
up only when about to retire for the night.
His back was toward the south, so he missed
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
the forewarning of the menace. The brass
knob of one of the doors was turning with
infinite slowness, a small fraction of an inch
at a time. If there was any sound, it was
smothered by the magnificent chords of
Rachmaninoff's melancholy inspiration.
Suddenly Berta stood up, covered a yawn,
and started toward the staircase. She had
reached the middle of the room, when a
rush of cold air caused Mathison to turn.
He saw Lysgaard, his blue eyes burning
with madness, his cheeks hollow and white
with fury. There followed two shots, but
Mathison's was a second too late. Berta's
hands flew automatically to her breast;
wide-eyed she stared at Lysgaard for a
space, then an expression of deep weariness
settled upon her face. She swayed, her
knees doubled, and she sank in a huddle
upon the rug.
Lysgaard leaned against the wall, grip-
ping his bloody hand.
"She had to die! ... She betrayed me!"
His voice was like f ,hat of a spent runner.
" You! Sh3 came to you! I meant to kill
you, too! . . . Gott!"
For Hilda was standing in the doorway
to the music-room, clutching the portieres,
291
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
hanging literally to them, in fact, struck by
that hypnosis with which sudden tragedy
always benumbs us. She saw the crumpled
figure on the floor; her husband, tense of
body, his weapon ready, his face hard and
merciless; the blond man, sagged against
the wall, staring with pathetic bewilderment
not at the woman he had shot, but at her.
With a supreme effort Hilda threw off the
spell, ran to her sister and knelt. Berta,
the little one whom she had always tried
to shield, for whom she had accepted many
a buffet, shouldered the charge of many a
misdeed!
" Berta, Berta!"
One corner of Berta's lips moved upward
a touch of the old irony. "My passport
. . . has come! . . . The mad fool! ... As
much as I could love any one! . . . Hilda,
the ghost . . . returns to the . . . tomb!"
The beautiful head sank grotesquely against
Hilda's shoulder. The Yellow Typhoon
had slipped down the Far Horizon.
"Two!" whispered Lysgaard, thickly.
"Two! . . . Gott!" He staggered across the
room. "Two! . . . And she never told me!"
he babbled in German. He dropped to his
knees, thrusting Hilda aside; put his sound
292
ILJTilda was standing in the doorway, struck by
L that hypnosis with which sudden tragedy always
benumbs us.
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
arm under the warm, limp body of the
woman he had called his own. "Berta,
Berta, little one, I did not know! Ah, God,
why didn't you tell me? I thought you had
betrayed me, left me for this Yankee
swine! . . . Two!"
Mathison sprang to Hilda, raised her in
his arms, and pressed her face against his
shoulder. A miracle had happened. Berta's
presence here had saved Hilda. That was
the chief thought in Mathison's mind.
Closely he pressed the loved one to him, so
that she might not see the second tragedy,
should Lysgaard turn upon him. But even
as he made the movement he saw a strange
action take place. Berta's body slid slowly
from Lysgaard's arm. The man's shoulders
pinched themselves together convulsively
and his head went back with a spasmodic
jerk. Then he fell across Berta's body.
Mathison thought he had fainted, but later
he learned that the bullet that had shat-
tered the hand had ricocheted and plowed
completely through the body. But for his
tremendous vitality Lysgaard would never
have reached Berta.
"Mat! Mat!" shrieked Malachi, across
the tragic silence.
293
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
A month later on a Friday afternoon-
Sam Rubin stopped his limousine before
a handsome apartment building and got out
briskly. Under his arm was a portfolio.
He rushed toward the entrance and popped
into the elevator. As he was a privileged
character, the maid Sarah admitted him at
once and indicated that her mistress was in
the living-room.
Rubin stepped jauntily along the corri-
dor, but he stopped at the door. By one
window he saw the star's mother. She was
knitting, but her glance was directed toward
her daughter.
"Sailorman," said Hilda.
"Sailorman," repeated Malachi, soberly,
if huskily.
"Husband, lover!"
But Malachi rocked belligerently and fell
to grumbling.
"I can't make him say that, mother."
" He has more serious things on his mind,"
interrupted Rubin, entering.
Hilda whirled. "Sam Rubin, what have
you got under your arm?"
"A bully new play for you; fit you like a
glove."
"I'm so glad! Work, work, work: some-
294
THE YELLOW TYPHOON
thing new and fresh that I can throw my-
self into!"
"Well, I've got it right here. What's
the news?"
"He's with the convoy." Hilda caught
her manager by the sleeve and drew him
over to one of the front windows. "The
star in the window mine!"
"You're the finest woman in all this
world!" said Rubin, soberly.
Hilda put her hand under the little silken
banner and raised it to her lips.
THE END
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